


Boys Will Be Boys

by Still_beating_heart



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: AU, All you'd expect from Gallavich, Dad Mickey, Domestic, Forget Canon, Fun, Ian skipped town for a decade after high school, Language, Love, M/M, Married Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich, Mickey is the biological father and Svetlana is the biological mother but it was not rape, Mickey's daughter is a mini-Mickey and she's adorable, Nurse Ian, Pretty light and easy work, Room to have some fun with this one, army ian, dad ian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-04
Updated: 2019-12-20
Packaged: 2020-02-23 19:56:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 46,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18708925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Still_beating_heart/pseuds/Still_beating_heart
Summary: I DON'T WRITE FLUFF BUT THIS ONE HAS IT'S MOMENTSBoys will be boys - or at least that's what Mickey has been hearing lately.  And Mickey - well, Mickey thinks that's a fuckin' lame ass excuse when it comes to his eight year old daughter.------“I missed you,” her face tilts up with a glossy smile, “did Santa bring you?  Did you get to ride in the sleigh?  You’re what I asked him for, but Daddy said sometimes even when you’re really good all year, that sometimes the things you ask Santa for just don’t work out.  But it did!  It worked out!  It did!”------****** Christmas Update: The Magic of the Holiday Season or Some Shit ******





	1. Boys Will Be Boys

Boys Will Be Boys

 

“Alright sniffly-doodle-dandy, what’s up?” reaching out to tuck his daughter’s stray hair behind her ear. She walked next to him on the sidewalk with her arms crossed tight over her chest and her best pouty face on. Not a word since, closed herself in her room and hasn’t come out even for her favorite breakfast for dinner.

“Nothing,” her lower lip actually can stick out further. Interesting. 

“Fine,” crossing his arms over his chest and pouting his lip at her, brows dipped, “I don’t care anyway. Guess I’ll eat all the pancakes. All by myself.”

Nothing.

“Then I’ll watch Wonder Woman for the hundredth time all by myself. And I’ll eat all the popcorn. With a half stick of butter on it. And a heavy helping of parmesan. Hell, then I’ll watch Mulan too,” one eyebrow lifting higher than the other. An elbow to her ribs, “and don’t tell your mom but I’ll probably stay up late enough to fall asleep on the couch and then tomorrow morning I’ll sleep past the alarm and you’ll miss your girl scout meeting.”

He gets up, keeping his arms crossed, storming across her bedroom floor and out the door with a quick glance her way to make sure she was listening. She was. The pout has turned into a smile war and the arms are starting to loosen. 

He’s only got one plate full of pancakes when he hears her on the stairs. The pout has disappeared by the time her pancakes have. She’s even spoken a few times. But the truth doesn’t come out until the credits are rolling and her head is back against the couch, cold feet tucked under Mickey’s leg. Her damn cold feet. 

“Teddy Gallagher flipped up my skirt on the playground today. He said it was Friday flip-up-day and I was just asking for it by wearing a skirt to school on Friday. But it was the only,” a big fat teardrop rolls down her face, “clean thing I could find this morning.”

“Fuckin’ Gallaghers. Did you punch him?”

“No. Last time he pulled my hair I shoved him, and I got in trouble for putting my hands on him.”

“And he wasn’t puttin’ his hands on you by pullin’ your hair?”

She shrugs, her hand rises to wipe her cheek and she won’t look at Mickey, mumbling instead towards the floor, “boys will be boys.”

“The fuck does that mean?”

“That’s what Mom says. She says I need to let it go because if a boy teases me it only means he has a crush on me.”

“That’s fuckin’ stupid. If a boy has a crush on you he can be a fuckin’ man about it and carry your backpack or hold the door open. If he pulls your hair then he deserves a kick to the crotch. If he flips up your skirt then he’s askin’ for a black eye. At the very least.”

“I’ll get in trouble if I punch him.”

“Clearly he ain’t learnin’ shit by not punching him. What’s the teacher say?”

“I’m not a tattletale Daddy,” now her big blue eyes rise, landing on his, “Southsiders don’t snitch.”

“Guess they don’t, do they?” 

She shrugs, eye contact faltering again. Fuck, sometimes she looks so much like Mandy did when she was that age. He reaches out for her chin, tilting her face towards him, “you know what? Instead of goin’ to fuckin’ girl scouts and learnin’ how to identify flowers or sell cookies or some useless shit, we’re goin’ to my hangout tomorrow and you’re learnin’ an effective right hook, k?”

A sparkle of excitement rises in her eyes, “okay Daddy.”

When he tugs her near his side, she doesn’t resist. Melting into him immediately. Fuckin’ kids. Kids are fuckin’ cruel. Turning to kiss the top of her head, jet black hair French braided by the FUCK U-UP hands that are stroking them now. 

Southside thug, piece of shit, pimp, drug dealer, and general ass kicker, part time convict, full time criminal. Taking the opportunity when she falls asleep to rest his face against the softness of her hair, breathe in her scent that he’ll always recognize as part of his heart, most of his heart. Fuck it, all of his heart. Little shit single-handedly reformed him. Now he’s a Southside piece of trash with an honest job, a fuckin’ recipe box, only time his knuckles are ever split anymore is from that damn bleach bathroom cleaner on cleaning day in the fuckin’ dead of winter dry indoor air and fuck that shit when she asks for an orange and that fuckin’ citrus juice gets in those cracks. Fuck. But oranges are a bitch to peel for little kid with tiny fingers so he does it anyway. 

That one damn short piece of hair that won’t stay in her braid is twisting gently around his finger and he wonders how the hell this happened so quickly. Her hair is wrapped around his finger, but his entire life is wrapped around hers.

————

“Principal wants to talk to us.”

“Hello to you too, bitch.”

“Call Principal. Set up meeting. You have my schedule.”

“Why’s he wanna meet with us?”

“Your daughter,” being certain to accent the ‘your’, “punched boy in nose today on playground.”

“Did she make him bleed?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

“Good?”

“Yes. I’ll make the fuckin’ appointment.”

————

“Mr. Milkovich, it’s come to my attention that Natalia has gotten rather violent with some of the boys in her class. It’s concerning…”

“It’s concernin’ that the boys in my daughter’s class are pullin’ her hair and flippin’ up her skirt and she ain’t allowed to punch ‘em in the nose for doin’ it. That’s what’s concernin’ Principal…”

“Thompson. Have you raised any sons Mr. Milkovich?”

“Fuck difference does that make?”

“Boys are…”

“Fuck that. Boys are shitheads and ain’t none of ‘em going to stop being shitheads until their parents stop shruggin’ off their shitheadedness with that stupid fuckin’ ‘boys will be boys’ attitude. Start with some damn discipline, whether it’s a boy or a girl, don’t fuckin’ matter.”

He clears his throat, his cheeks are turning a little red, certainly from frustration, “Mr…”

“It’s Mick. It ain’t Mr. Milkovich. And I ain’t apologizing for having a daughter who stands up for herself. So until you got a real reason for me to take time out of my day to meet with you…” he can feel his eyebrows growing higher on his forehead the longer he speaks.  
That damn useless Russian whore hasn’t said a damn word, but she’ll be full of them once they step out that door. He’s certain of that much.

“I guess I…”

“That’s what I thought,” pushing out of the chair abruptly, “pleasure to meet you Principal Thompson. I expect next time I receive a call from your office there will be a real reason behind it.”

His hand is on Svetlana’s lower back to steer her out the door, and they’re through it before the old man responds. Fuck him. Whether or not Milkoviches have pussies, they ain’t pussies. Someone fucks with Natalia, they’ll get fucked up. Just like it always was with Mandy. Bitch wasn’t afraid to use her fists, her open palm, or a shiv. 

————

“Who’s the blood belong to Jab-n-Gab?”

She rolls her eyes at the nickname, “Teddy Gallagher.”

“That dumb fucker still ain’t learned his lesson?”

“Guess not,” digging some dirt out from under her nails. Watching the sidewalk in front of them for a long time before her eyes meet his again, “Daddy, I want you to stop braiding my hair.”

“Why?”

“Because if it wasn’t braided, he wouldn’t pull it.”

“Fuck that. You like wearin’ braids Nat?”

“Well, no, not if…”

“No, fuck that. You like wearin’ braids?”

“I mean, they keep my hair out of my face. And ponytails are too tight. But, we could cut it,” she shrugs, “I wouldn’t mind short hair.”

“You sure about that?”

She bites her lip to keep her chin from quivering, “no.”

“K,” clamping down firmly on her skinny shoulder, “then we’ll keep braiding it. And maybe it’s about time I have a chat with Teddy Gallagher’s parents?”

“No Dad,” hands on her hips, “I’ll handle this.”

“Okay,” tweaking her nose. But it’s time for this shit to be dealt with. It’s been a long time, well, like a few months anyway, since he’s had to give someone a beat down. 

————

“That one is Teddy?”

She nods, watching through the fence at little league.

“Must be Debbie’s brat,” only other Gallagher with that coloring is queer. But Nat don’t need an explanation for sexuality just yet. Does she? No, she doesn’t, but, “you got any kids in your class with two dads or two moms?”

Her face screws up for a second before her eyes roll like he’s the dumbest motherfucker on the planet, “they’re called homosexuals Daddy. And yes. Mommy told me about it like last year. Amber’s moms are really cool. I was sort of jealous but then I realized if I had two moms I wouldn’t have you. So maybe I’d like two dads someday.”

“What exactly did Mommy tell you?”

“She said that if a woman loves another woman then she’s a lesbian. If a man loves another man then he’s gay. But they’re both homosexuality. And everyone should be happy to love the person they love,” she shrugs, “and something about America being the land of choice and Burger King and MacDonalds,” rolling her eyes, “you know Mom.”

“Yeah. I do,” he sighs, “too well really. But she’s right. And you know what? You’ve got a pretty okay Mom, kid.”

————

“Teddy’s not mine,” she scoffs at him, hurrying down the sidewalk, “I was like fourteen when he was born.”

“Yeah well it’s the Southside. Case you forgot.”

“Whatever, I’m going to be late for work.”

“No you ain’t. You still got like twenty minutes and the site’s only a five minute walk.”

“Which doesn’t give you enough time to fuck up my brother anyway, so,” making walking fingers in the air between them, “keep moving Milkovich.”

“You might be my site boss bitch, but that don’t mean you can order me around off the clock,” his eyebrows are up as he glares at her, “who’s cock you suck to get this job anyway?”

“Someone too straight for you,” she winks, then pretends to zip her mouth shut and throw away the key when she notes his fists clenching at his sides, “you think I give a fuck about the sexuality of my employees? Please, you aren’t that good at hiding things Mickey. I saw you checking out Brad’s ass the other day. He’s only sort of too straight for you. I bet if you got him drunk enough.”

“Alright, that’s enough. Keep your fuckin’ trap shut Gallagher.”

“That’s my job Mick,” she winks.

“Jesus Christ. Which fuckin’ brother?”

“Guess, dipshit. Like I’d tell you. You’ve got four to choose from. I think you can narrow it down yourself,” she rolls her eyes at him and jabs him with an elbow, “but I don’t think it would take any drinks at all to make him swing your way.”

His finger is in the air, but she crosses the property line and grins that big Gallagher shit-eating grin, “on the job Milkovich. Keep your home life at home and your work life at work. And by the way, I didn’t suck anyone’s cock for this job. I worked my fucking ass off. Don’t you,” jabbing into his chest with her finger, “forget that.”

“Like I could.”

————

“I thought the queer one took off for the Army after graduation.”

“He did,” she shrugs, “and now it’s nine years later and…” her eyes roll, “are you going to serve me my beer or should I go find a bartender who deserves a tip?”

“Your tips ain’t worth dealing with your lip,” but he fills the glass anyway, “where’s he live?”

“Who?”

“Your queer brother.”

“Like I’d tell you that. If you want nothing more than to give him a beat down because his kid is a dick.”

“So you agree?”

“With what?”

“That his kid is a dick.”

She shrugs, “that kid is my nephew,” slapping her cash down on the bar, with a flick of her hair she grabs her beer and heads off to the back table. She’s back an hour later, elbows on the bar, forlorn look in her eyes.

“Get stood up?”

“Yes,” she sighs, propping her chin on her hands.

“Dick,” sliding a shot towards her, lifting his own and waiting for the cheers, “boys will be boys,” he shrugs with a half smirk.

She rolls her eyes, “what does that even mean? Like it’s okay to be a dick just because you have a dick?”

“Seems that way don’t it?”

“Whatever, he’s just another guy in a long line of guys who can’t handle a real woman who takes care of herself. Wants some kind of useless damsel in distress or something.”

“Boys will be boys,” he shrugs again.

“He wouldn’t be able to treat me like shit because I wouldn’t rely on him for a damn thing. I can get mine with silicone and batteries. Why the hell would I need a man anyway?”

“Still hurts to get stood up though, don’t it?” pouring her another one.

“What are you getting at Milkovich?”

“You’re an independent woman. You’re tough and make your own way. But it still sucks when a guy acts like a boy, and you can make all the excuses you want. He’s intimidated. He got scared when he saw how beautiful you are. He got scared when he realized you could take care of yourself. However you want to shrug it off. But,” he sets another shot down, “what it all boils down to is boys will be boys.”

“And a man would have the nerve to at the very least call the date off instead of standing me up?”

“Yes,” clinking her shot glass with his before they tip them back again, “and if he had learned that shit when he was young. That it ain’t okay to treat a girl like shit just ‘cause she’s a girl…”

“You’re a tricky little bastard, aren’t you?”

“Maybe,” eyebrow lifting with a smirk.

“Jesus Christ. Fine. I’m going to the bathroom now. I’m going to trust you to keep an eye on my purse while I’m taking a piss,” she plops it down on the bar. Her phone on top, on her way past she unlocks the screen, “oops,” shrugging as she saunters off to the restroom.

————

Three sharp raps on the door before it finally swings open. That same stupid startled expression that makes Mickey’s breath catch for just a split fuckin’ second before he remembers why he’s here in the first place, “got a fuckin’ problem to discuss with you Gallagher.”

The startled expression is being shaken off, being slowly replaced by some self-assured smug look that Mickey wants to punch off his ginger face, “whatever Carl owes you is his problem,” shrugging, not taking his hands off the door, like he’s going to close the fuckin’ thing in Mickey’s face.

“Don’t think so. Ain’t about your brother. I got out of the game years ago. This is…”

“You did?” 

Fuck him, soundin’ all proud, “yeah. Ain’t about that either. Look…”

“I thought by now you’d be in prison, or running from the feds. Headed down to Mexico.”

HIs middle finger responds for him, “well I ain’t. And here’s the…”

“You look good.”

“Fuck you. Quit fuckin’ interuptin’ me unless you want a beat down.”

“Thought you were out of the game,” fuck him for still having such gorgeous fucking eyes.

“Don’t mean I ain’t afraid to hand out an ass pounding when…”

“Thought you preferred to take the ass pounding,” his eyebrow quirks a little and the face goes from mostly smug to completely smug.

“Guess I’ll just have to fuckin’ prove it then, huh?” shaking out his shoulders, motioning Ian come out the damn door, step up to the fuckin’ plate, “you can even have the first swing tough guy.”

“You sure you want that?” he’s rolling up his sleeves all nonchalant, but Mickey knows this asshole better than he thinks he does. Might not be afraid to throw a punch, time in the Army, could go either way, but it was never his knee-jerk response to everything the way it’s always been for Mickey. 

He cocks his head back, giving the go ahead and the dare at the same time. Putting his fists up between them, ready for the blow. 

That stupid smug smile is getting even more smug, if that’s possible. The first connection ain’t bad. Enough that Mickey won’t feel bad at all for handing out the beating he’s about to give this damn ginger fucker that fucked him up so bad back in high school and then just took off like Mickey never meant a damn thing to him. Fuck him. 

Stupid fucker. Wanting Mickey to come out, to live free, to feel like it was fuckin’ okay to be a faggot. Well, apparently it wasn’t okay to be a faggot in the Army. Enough not okay that the idiot knocked up some girl and now has a fuckin’ spoiled shithead for a kid. 

Fuck him.

Mickey’s connection is enough to stagger the stupid redhead. He feels his eyebrows come up when the shock takes over on his dopey ass face again. That wasn’t even close to full force. Fucker’s in for a ride. Test punches, just little fuckin’ jabs to see what gives, to find his weak spot. Even though Mickey knows exactly what his weak spot is. He might outreach him, but he ain’t ever going to outsmart him. Even with a decade of military training. Dumb fuck anyway. 

Takes about two more to the face before he gets pissed. Then it’s body shots and they roll down the stairs of the front porch in a heap, bleeding and cursing each other out. Mickey’s back hits the pavement and the idiot has the upper hand for the moment, his hands coming down to grasp at Mickey’s throat. Tucking his chin and landing a few good knees to the kidneys while he’s on top of him. 

Knocks him off balance with a solid right hook, forces a roll and throws a few more just for show. Nothing full force either, just to make sure he knows who won. In case the black eyes and split lip won’t remind him when he looks in the mirror tomorrow. 

Ginger prick bucks him off into the grass but he’s laughing now, lying on his back. Mickey rolls to his back next to him with a sigh, “best of three?”

“Fuck you,” spitting a stream of blood into the grass between them, “I have to work in an office tomorrow.”

“Yeah, well I guess you should just let me finish a fuckin’ sentence when I come over to talk like a grown man, instead of interruptin’ me and talkin’ down to me like I’m still just some piece of Southside trash.”

His head turns, scanning Mickey over with a cocky appraisal, “you still look like a piece of Southside trash.”

Middle finger responds as he pulls himself to seated, “yeah well,” pushing against a loose tooth, “now I’m really gonna look like fuckin’ trash when this tooth falls out.”

“If you’re going to act the part, you might as well look it,” he shrugs.

Mickey’s fist lands hard in his left arm, “the fuck you take off without a fuckin’ word for?”

“Fuck. It was too hard, seeing you living a life you didn’t want to live.”

“Fuck you. Looks like you did the same fuckin’ thing asswipe.”

“That was different,” he won’t make eye contact, won’t even look in the general direction.

Mickey shakes a smoke out his pack, offering it over to a head shake, “suit yourself. How’s it fuckin’ different?”

“Military isn’t exactly an out and proud…”

“Oh that’s right. But the Southside, and the Milkovich family especially. Now that’s a out and proud kinda situation.”

“What do you want me to say?” his head finally turns, looking Mickey directly in the face. 

HIs breath catches and he tries his damndest to hide it, taking a slow drag from his cigarette, forcing himself to retain eye contact, “fuckever. I ain’t here about that. You. Me. Don’t fuckin’ matter. I’m here…”

“It doesn’t matter?”

“No. It never fuckin’ did. Alright? You made that pretty fuckin’ clear. Life goes on. Thing is, your son’s a piece of shit. I’m here about that.”

“What? Teddy?”

“Oh, act all surprised Gallagher. Like you didn’t know he was being an asshole to the girls in his class. Like you didn’t know how he ended up with a bloody nose…”

“He said that happened in ball practice.”

“Fuckever. It happened when my daughter got sick of him pullin’ her hair and flippin’ up her skirt and generally touching her when she don’t want to be touched. You discipline that kid now. He’s messin’ with the wrong fuckin’ girl.”

“You’re telling me that my son has a crush on your daughter?”

“No I ain’t tellin’ you that. I’m tellin’ you that your son is a disrespectful asshole and he’s going to stay the fuck away from my daughter if he knows what’s best for him,” his hand has punched out the emphasis in the air between them with the lit cigarette between his fingers.

Ginger idiot takes that as in invitation to grab the smoke, rolled up on his elbow now facing Mickey in the dimness of a city night. He takes a long grateful drag, his fire from earlier having gone completely out, “what do you want me to do about it, huh? Teasing, it’s just how boys…”

“Fuck you with that. Your fuckin’ kid’s got a crush on my daughter then teach the fucker to treat her with respect. He wants to show he likes her? He can offer to carry her books. Or hold the door for her. Or ask if he can sit with her at lunch. Dumb fucker. Apple didn’t fall far from the tree on that one, did it?”

“What? I seem to recall you coming after me…”

“To beat your ass for disrespectin’ my sister. Didn’t know at the time it was a lie. Then you came after me with a tire iron fuckface.”

“Guess I did, huh?”

“Yeah. But like I said, this ain’t about that. You or me.”

“Us.”

“Not us. Never was an us. This is about your asshole son.”

“It’s hard adjusting to a new school.”

“Yeah well that ain’t an excuse to be a prick.”

“What’s your excuse?”

Middle finger. Always there when he needs someone to stick up for him.

“I’ll talk to him,” he finally agrees reluctantly, “what should I tell him? If you want to be a man about your feelings, then own up to them? That how it should go?”

“Fuck you.”

“That’s what I thought,” he gets to his feet suddenly, handing the half-smoked cigarette back over, “if you want to be a man someday you’ll have to ask the person you have a crush on to go out on a date? That it? Hair pulling, insults, and punches won’t do the trick?”

His middle finger rises again, this time Ian swats it away, instead gripping his wrist and giving him the boost to his feet. He doesn’t stop there, doesn’t stop pulling until Mickey is nearly against his chest. Looking down at him with all the fuckin’ superiority the Gallaghers have always had over every other piece of trash the Southside has to offer, like they grow on the highest branch on the loser tree, “you want to go out sometime? Have some dinner, a couple beers, a nice sit-down restaurant?”

“Oh like I ain’t never been to one of those before?” he scoffs at him.

“Have you? Been on a real date?”

“Fuck you is what I’ve been on,” forcing himself to take the steps back, away from his presence before it can swallow Mickey whole.

“Usually not until the third or fourth date, but,” he shrugs, smug creeping right back into his features.

“You’re way too fuckin’ easy Gallagher.”

“Is that a yes?” calling after him when he turns his back.

“That’s a fuck you.”

“I’ll buy.”

“I got my own fuckin’ cash bitch.”

“Fine, then you buy. Saturday night?”

His finger responds for him again. Turning out of the yard onto the sidewalk in the yellow glow of the streetlights.

“Seven o’clock. VU?”

“Fuck that snobby shit.”

“So that’s a yes?”

“Fuck you Gallagher,” he picks up his pace, needing to get the hell away from the big idiot before his body betrays his entire reason for knocking on his door in the first place.

But he’s still close enough when he hears the smile in Ian’s voice as he tells himself, “so that’s a yes.”


	2. Stupid Fuckin' Fancy Ass Place

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A date?
> 
> It's Mickey - so... language!

Stupid Fuckin’ Fancy Ass Place

 

“I don’t see what the big deal is Daddy,” she rolls her eyes in the mirror behind him when he smooths that stupid piece of stray hair to the side for the like the seven hundredth time, “if it’s just dinner with an old friend, why can’t I come along?”

“No kids allowed,” he shrugs, using the last excuse in the bag. Honestly, he’d rather she was there. Take some pressure off, force his physical desires for Ian Gallagher to remain stifled. His stupid orange hair and his stupid green eyes, fuck, this is going to be hard. Or impossible without a distraction.

He eyes her reflection, pouty lip out, as he gnaws on his own. What would be so bad about bringing the kid? It’s not like it was an actual date agreement. It was just a dinner offer. 

Dinner with a guy who ripped your fucking heart out and stomped on it on his way out of the Southside. Dick probably won’t even show tonight. Fuck.

He needs a shot of whiskey for this. Or seven. 

He opens his mouth, the words nearly out, his voice starting to exit his lips, his invitation for her to come along when the front door slams open with a loud, “I’m here!”

“No shit,” he mutters at the exact moment Nat’s face goes from pouty to overjoyed, “Aunt Mandy!” she’s shrieking as she tears out of the bathroom.

“Yeah, guess I could have told ya who was hangin’ out while I’m gone.”

“Would have derailed an argument,” she agrees from where she’s wrapped her arms around his sister, her head tilted back to look up at her with all the adoration a face can contain.

Fuckin’ Mandy. Someone’s gotta love her, might as well be her eight year old niece. She ruffles Nat’s hair, leaning down to kiss her nose, whispering, “don’t tell Dad, but I brought ice cream and nail polish.”

He narrows his eyes at her, not sure which one he hates more, “not until after dinner.”

“I know the rules,” she scoffs at him, “bedtime is midnight, lots of sugar between now and then, no teeth-brushing, feel free to jump on Daddy’s bed, hmm,” tapping her finger against her lips for a moment, “what am I missing?”

“Loud music!”

“Oh and R-rated movies!” she giggles when Nat does.

“Fuckever bitch. Dinner’s in the oven, it’ll be ready in about ten minutes. Make sure she eats all her veggies,” his eyebrows are up, “fuckin’ strep throat is going around her classroom and she don’t need that shit.”

“Yes sir,” she salutes him and he flips her off. Her eyes appraising him from head to toe, it makes him squirm and pull on the collar of his dress shirt, “you said VU?”

“Yeah, fuckin’ snobby ass place.”

“Ian’s probably going to have a tie on,” she smirks at him.

“Fuck that. No one wears ties.”

Her face calls his bluff. His response is an aggravated sigh while she breezes past him to his bedroom. Not like she has anything to pick out. He’s wearing the shirt from Iggy’s wedding and the only tie he owns is from the same fuckin’ event, “well at least Iggy picked out your correct color,” she grins as she produces the still tied tie from his closet, “though I’m pretty sure it was Lori who picked everything out,” she shrugs, tugging the damn thing over his head and tucking it under his collar with a pat to his chest, “you look good Mick. Nervous?”

“Fuck would I be nervous for?”

She rolls his sleeves, tucks the cuffs, “then if Ian’s not wearing a tie, the relaxed sleeve will…”

“You said he’d be wearing one.”

“Yeah, well I haven’t exactly talked to him in nine years. Just the occasional ‘like’ on a Facebook post,” she grins a sly little grin at him, watching him through their mother’s eyes.

He bites back whatever the fuck kind of emotion is gripping so tight on his damn heart, it’s near bursting. She pats his cheek, assuring him, “just have fun. The past is in the past. And at the very least, make him pick up the tab, it’ll make you feel just a tad better. Almost a decade passed, I think you can find some common ground if you both have kids. Start with that kind of fluffy stuff. Share your wallet pics of Nat, you know, the ones that normal people put all over social media when they have kids…”

“Fuck that shit.”

“I know,” she pats his tie down one more time, “take a deep breath, make him sweat out a few minutes past seven. If you want, the night is yours. Shit doesn’t work with him, then hit some sketchy joint in Boystown.”

“Yeah right. I gotta be home before ten anyway.”

“No you don’t. She’ll sleep just fine with Aunt Mandy here to keep watch over her. I’ll text you a picture of her sleeping face by 9:30. I guarantee it.”

Fuck, she knows he goes to mush on the inside at the thought of her sleeping face. She gets to sleep in peace. A luxury he never thought he’d be able to give his child. She gets to sleep in her own room, in her own bed without the worry that someone will come crashing through the door, drunk and yelling. 

Sure, the house is tiny. It’s all he can afford, it’s still a dump in the Southside. No use in denying that he’ll always be Southside, so his daughter might as well be too. But she ain’t got it bad here. She’ll never have to steal to eat, she’ll never have to fight her drunken father, or worry about someone walkin’ in her room with a tire iron to beat her ass. 

Fucker.

Fuck.

His fingers meet his eyes unconsciously, rubbing hard into them until all he sees are spots colliding and bursting. Rubbing until he feels Mandy’s hands snaking into his palms, pulling them back from his face. Blinking rapidly until her blurry face comes into slight focus.

She smiles, that same stupid reassuring smile Mom always wore, “have a couple drinks, eat some good food, and relax. I’ve got Nat. Nothing here will go wrong. Shit goes south with Ian, there are plenty of other fish in the sea.”

“Yeah, well I ain’t exactly a catch,” mumbling towards the blurry space between them.

“Whoa, where the fuck did that come from?” her knuckles thunk against the top of his head, “knock, knock. Is this the Milkovich residence? Is Mickey home? Oh you know Mickey, that cocky piece of trash, always running his mouth, never wrong, quick tempered, and feisty. Oh yeah, him, oh he’s been gone for years now,” she rolls her eyes then her hands drop into his, squeezing tight, “you’re a great dad Mick. But you need to do you sometimes, you know?”

“Fuckever Oprah,” his eyes narrow and his finger flies.

“Oh there he is,” she punches his arm hard, “now get the fuck out of here so I can get my niece all sugared up.”

————

“Shit, shit, fuck.”

His hands keep running through his hair, he can feel the sweat beaded up in his pits. Runnin’ down his asscrack like it’s fuckin’ ninety degrees out. Fuck. It’s like fuckin’ sixty. Max.

“Fuck,” pacing back and forth across the street from the hoity toity fuckin’ joint Ian picked. Of course he picked this shit. What is this shit? Who the fuck wants to eat on a fuckin’ rooftop? Watch the goddamn city below like it’s some kind of fuckin’ once in a lifetime opportunity to see buildings and cars and more fucking buildings before the world disappears and it becomes Lake Michigan. 

“Fuck me,” corner store. Couple of fuckin’ shots. That’s all, just two of those mini bottles from the fishbowl on the counter. Vodka. Fuck Svetlana, fuckin’ vodka. But if it’s whiskey, Ian will be able to smell it. Then the smug prick will know he got under Mickey’s skin. Made him fuckin’ itch the way he always used to. Ginger fucker crawlin’ all over him with his damn eyes. 

Fuck. Three. It’s going to take three. In quick succession as the attendant stares wide-eyed. They hit the counter with an echo of emptiness, “got a recycling bin?”

“Uh,” he’s looking at Mickey like he’s not sure if he wants to make a joke, or just duck.

He should fuckin’ duck, “throw ‘em in the fuckin’ trash then.”

Stupid fuckin’ electronic bell thingy at the door. What the fuck is that shit? Goddamn store is open, why the fuck they need a warning each time a customer comes in? Ain’t that the point of a store?

The outside air. Spring, fuck Spring. Fuck.

Alright, it’s been a minute since Mickey has had much to drink, three shots tonight just to kick things off. The occasional shot with a regular at the Alibi, but he never drinks when Natalia’s with him. No way in hell he’ll be that drunk piece of shit father. No way he’ll even be half in the bag when she’s around. She don’t need that shit. She needs someone who is there, physically and emotionally present. Always.

His fingers rise to grind into his eyes. So what the fuck is he doing here? Wasting a night he could be spending with his daughter. He splits the week with Svet, since she lives right down the damn street it ain’t hard to switch off. But he takes weekends since that bitch always works weekends and he rarely does. Doesn’t bother him a bit, he gets Nat’s days off school. 

Now he’s just wastin’ it. 

“Fuck,” well he ain’t gonna be a huge dick about it. Go up there, tell him somethin’ came up and head back home. Not that the bastard deserves his explanation. He never gave a fuckin’ word to Mickey before he left. Just disappeared. 

Fuck him. He don’t deserve Mickey’s effort.

But fuck that. Nadiya didn’t raise a complete prick. Damn her. Always talkin’ in his ear still. 

“Alright Mom, I fuckin’ hear ya,” he sighs under his breath as he pulls the door open and stalks inside of the stupid fuckin’ fancy ass place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like I said - forget canon. I'll still pull a few basic character building things from canon but I'll twist the Svetlana storyline to make her a non-rapist. Also since we're forgetting canon there'll be some character differences by this point in their lives. 
> 
> I feel like Mickey always has the potential to be good at whatever he puts his heart into, so being a dad, yes he would be good at that. 
> 
> I thought I was going to just do a second chapter to wrap it all up, but it's looking like more than that. We'll call it a short story and try to do it in under ten.


	3. Steak So Rare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sure thing, it's a date.

Steak So Rare

 

7:09. Ian smooths his tie down one more time. Swallowing the contents of his drink in one gulp and motioning the waiter for another when he catches his eye.

Was the tie too much? He rolls his sleeves nervously. Mickey won’t be wearing a tie. At least if Ian rolls up his sleeves, it’ll look more relaxed. 

7:12. Fuck. He’s not going to show, is he? Damn it. 

Oh well, it’s a night out without a kid. Without a Gallagher. Maybe if he makes the right eyes at the waiter…

It’s like a fucking instinctual thing when Mickey is near. He didn’t hear him. Obviously he didn’t smell him. He didn’t even see him. He didn’t just so happen to look up at the exact moment he was strutting through the door. His brows already furrowed in annoyance as he scans over the tables. 

It was none of that. It was like his senses all just fired at one time. And every single one of them keyed in on Mickey. He stands without telling himself to. As if the fire on his head isn’t enough of a beacon, he might as well stand and make himself insanely obvious. And what’s he going to do when Mickey gets here? Pull out his chair for him? He’d probably get punched in the nose for that. 

His eyes flit across Ian’s face. Expression unchanging as he charges over to the table. God, he’s gorgeous. Only now do Ian’s eyes drop to take in his manner of dress. Sighing quiet relief at the sight of a tie. A tie? Holy fuck. It’s a tie. And it’s tied right. And it’s burnt orange. And his shirt is blue. It’s pretty fucking close to matching his eyes and holy fuck. Holy fuck he dresses up well. Truthfully the guy is sexy as hell in anything. Sexiest in nothing, but it’s not like Ian would know just how fucking sexy he truly is, since the stubborn prick never let him worship his body the way it deserves to be worshipped.

Has he let anyone?

Lost in his daydream of Mickey’s flesh, not noticing he’s already taken it upon himself to plop down at the table. His voice is what snaps Ian’s attention back to this moment, this rooftop eatery that is so out of the realm of Southside, it’s probably not a place any locals actually set foot in. It’s definitely not a place locals set foot in. Even Carl scoffed at him for his choice of dining.

“There’s a fuckin’ plant in my drink Gallagher,” his brows are up as he stares at the glass like it’s going to bite him.

“Mick, it’s…” 

“Ain’t it s’posed to be celery or some shit?”

“If it was a Bloody Mary.”

“Celery’s s’posed to be in a Bloody Mary?” he keeps looking at it like he’s afraid to touch it. HIs hand rises instead to his tie, yanking it loose.

Ian can’t stifle the smile that rises. What is it about dressing them up, but you can’t take them out? 

“You look good Mick.”

“Fuck you,” his eyes finally meet Ian’s. 

And Ian’s breath catches in his throat. Fighting the urges in his body to flip this table and crash into those lips. 

“Celery’s gross, man.”

“You hate celery?”

“Who doesn’t?” looking at Ian like he’s the crazy one.

“No ants-on-a-log?”

“Fuck raisins too. Only time celery’s good is when it’s in spaghetti sauce.”

“Spaghetti sauce?”

“Uh, did I stutter?”

“No, I just… like a jar of…”

“Fuck jars. I’m talkin’ made from scratch. Sauce in a jar is just fuckin’ tomatoes and chemicals and like a fuck ton of sugar,” he shrugs, his fingers rubbing across the cloth napkin, “not that there ain’t sugar in tomato paste or nothin’,” he mumbles.

“You’re worried about sugar?”

“The fuck wouldn’t I be?” eyes narrowing as they land on Ian’s face, “dental’s expensive.”

“Tomato paste?”

“In the sauce,” his eyes drop to the drink again. Fuck, Ian should have just met him in the dugout and shotgunned some beers.

“You cook often?”

“I got a fuckin’ kid, don’t I?”

“Well, yeah, but I just mean, so you prefer home cooked meals to dining out?”

He nods, his eyebrows are at their height on his forehead. 

God, Ian missed that face, “I have a bad habit of relying on freezer meals and Fiona,” he admits.

“You also got a bad habit of not disciplinin’ your kid.”

He sighs, knowing he’s defeated without trying to explain himself. Mick’s made up his mind, and it won’t be changed. And sure, he’s mostly right. Ian doesn’t come down as hard on Teddy anymore as he should. The multitude of reasons would all be lost on Mickey right now. Guilt for missing most of his milestones because of working long hours, moving him around every time he got used to a school. And his mom…

Saved by the waiter. 

Ian can see the gears turning in Mickey’s head. He has no idea how to order anything off this menu. The prices are high and as he scans over the plates on the neighboring tables, he realizes that the servings are fucking tiny. 

Internally kicking himself for choosing some place he thought would impress. Show off some of his refined edges, his salary, and what? Fucking table manners? To a guy like Mickey. Fuck, what was he thinking? Mickey never in his life would want any of this shit. Even this Mickey who cooks and worries about how much sugar is in his daughter’s diet, how old she’ll be the first time a boy assaults her, if she’s getting enough sleep at night, if her bed is comfortable and the thermostat is adjusted properly. If the hot water heater is set on the right setting. If she knows proper poison safety and when to call 911. If she has enough love and protection. If she’s keeping up on her school work without getting stressed out. If she’s in enough extracurriculars to keep her busy but not overworked. 

Fucking idiot, you chose exactly a place that would make Mickey extremely uncomfortable and self-conscious. 

Ian reaches up to loosen his tie, and he orders four entrees for the table. Smiling when he tells the waiter, “steak so rare it moos when he bites into it.”

A ghost of a flush rises in Mickey’s cheeks as his eyes drop. A ghost of a conversation in the dugout so many fucking years ago it’s hard to conjure in his mind exactly what was spoken. But the look in Mickey’s eye when he spoke of steak. Like a bloody steak at a Sizzler was the most magnificent thing he’d ever see in his life. And his dreams of seeing it were just that, dreams.

Ian watches his hand reach across the table, removing the garnish from Mickey’s drink, fighting the urge to just toss it off the roof, instead he drops it in his own. Mickey doesn’t respond. He doesn’t need to. It was Ian’s fault to begin with that he’s in an uncomfortable position. 

He watches his lips as the glass makes contact. Taking a grateful gulp and trying like hell not to purse his lips at the awful hipster cocktail taste that’s lingering on his tongue before the bourbon takes over. Head turning to watch the view of Lake Michigan in silence.

It got heavy. Already. Shit. Ian pops the top button of his shirt, wondering, “you ever learn? How to swim?” quietly. Like he’ll break the trance that’s taken over in his gorgeous eyes if he speaks too loudly.

“Yeah,” he admits, watching the lowering sun reflecting off the surface of the gentle waves on the horizon for a deep breath. Focus shifting, finding Ian, “only way Nat would get in the pool was if I went with her. We took the damn Red Cross lessons together. Took her to the beach a couple times.”

He feels a smile rising on his face at the image of Mickey playing frisbee with his daughter on the shore of Lake Michigan, “she like it? The beach?”

“Yeah, man. She’s a kid. ‘Course she liked it.”

“I brought Teddy to the infant classes at the Y. The whole blow in their face and dunk them thing, he didn’t like that so much.”

He snickers, “I ever tried that shit with Nat when she was a baby, she’d have punched me in the nose. Even then,” pride is twinkling across his irises and it doesn’t look a hell of a lot different than the lake beside them. 

Ian can’t help the smile that rises in response to the calm that takes over Mickey’s entire being when he speaks of his daughter, “so she’s a lot like her dad, huh?”

He loses his eye contact again, a shrug, “sorta,” as he watches his fingers on the napkin again.

Mickey’s probably never used a cloth napkin. Or a salad fork.

Jesus Christ Ian, could you have chosen a less comfortable place for this reunion?

Fuck, he just wants to reach under the table and squeeze his knee. Just so he knows that Ian doesn’t care. He wouldn’t care if he picked the steak up with his bare hands and let the blood drip off his chin and onto his blue shirt. Actually there’s something primally sexy in that image. 

Eating. Eating was the wrong choice if he wants to keep his hormones from raging through his body from head to toe around this guy. Eating means his mouth is moving. Eating means he’s putting things in his mouth. Eating means that Ian will stare at his mouth all damn night. 

“So how’s Mandy?” that should be a safe topic.

“Good. She works at a salon, did the whole cosmetology school thing,” he shrugs, “guess even Southside bitches need to get their nails done or some shit.”

“Hair or nails?”

“Fuck difference does it make?”

“Uh, one’s up here,” pointing at his head, “and the other…”

“Fuck you. I know the difference.”

“So does she do…”

“Both. I guess. Fuck should I care? She cuts my hair once a month and she showed me how to French braid Nat’s. Ain’t like I’m gonna get my nails done. And little girls don’t need that pageant princess bullshit either.”

Mickey. It’s Mickey, and how the hell did Ian live the last decade without him? And of course Mickey would learn how to braid hair if he had a daughter. How the fuck is that an image in Ian’s mind that is making him even hotter for this guy? Like he’s surprised Mickey would be a good dad?

“How’s, uh, the whole Gallagher clan?”

“Not much ever changes with them. Fiona’s running Patsy’s Pies and talking about getting into real estate. Lip fucked up his chance at college and fell face first into the bottle, works at a motorcycle shop now. Debbie’s got her shit together, she’s a…”

“I work with Debbie,” clearing his throat, “work for her really. She’s pretty okay for a boss though. As bosses go.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, man, she’s tough but she ain’t a bitch.”

“Good,” pride swells in his chest. Of course Debbie’s good at her job, “Carl is still Carl. He’s working at a restaurant and smoking a lot of weed. Liam is in high school, doing well grade-wise.”

He half-nods a response while he attempts another drink of his drink. Damn, Ian you could have ordered him a beer at least. 

He watches Mickey’s face as the waiter brings over the plates. Plates that are too big for the amount of food on them. Food dressed up like it’s going to be featured on every food blogger’s blog and social media pages of every single eater. And he watches as Mickey unrolls the cloth napkin he’s been fondling half the night. His eyebrows unable to stifle his surprise at the extra fork. 

He needs to stop watching. He needs to not put Mickey on the spot right now. But he can’t draw his gaze off his perfect face. And he can’t stop his hand from reaching over and pressing down the tines of the proper fork, so the handle rises and Mickey grips it. He doesn’t look across the table at Ian. And that’s okay. 

Yes, when Mickey cuts into the steak and it bleeds, Ian moos. He receives a kick to the shin and the most insanely gorgeous blush in the most perfectly structured face on the Earth when the bitch at the table beside them shoots him a dirty look over the volume level of his laugh. He doesn’t care. What’s the worst that can happen? They get asked to leave? Fuck if he cares. He’s planning on never dating another man in his life, and he’s certainly never bringing Mickey back to this hoity toity fancy ass place that’s way too snooty for his bitch-slapping shit-talking piece of Southside trash that’s become a dedicated father and a hard worker with an honest job in the decade they’ve been apart. 

Ian can’t wait to relearn him now. 

Knowing he was doing the math in his head while Ian was ordering, knowing if he lets the waiter bring the bill over, Mickey will snag it and pay for it even if he can’t afford it. So he excuses himself to the restroom and passes his card to the waiter, behind Mickey’s back. Signing the tab on his way back to the table. 

He has no desire for this night to be over, but he honestly wants to get Mickey out of this tier of social terror that he’d never admit to be terrifying and out of his element. If anyone ever asked Mickey, he’d say nothing scared him or intimidated him. And he’s good at pretending to be comfortable. But he’s not. Ian mostly hates himself for putting him in this position, but he loves that the stubborn prick showed up. He loves that he managed to make it through the meal without punching anyone or causing any type of general scene.

When Ian shifts to get to his feet, his brows rise, “they ain’t brought the bill yet Gallagher.”

He shrugs, “maybe you pay on the way out.”

His eyes narrow, seeing directly through Ian without hesitation, “you fuckin’ prick.”

“Pleasure was all mine Mick,” he grins, “you got next round.”

“Fuck you,” he sighs, pushing himself out from the table. Ian watches the napkin fall to the ground, off his lap as he rises. Mickey doesn’t notice, and that’s just fucking fine. He stoops to pick it up on his way by, tossing it on the table and taking the chance to put his hand on Mickey’s lower back. Steer him through the door, or maybe just let him know he’s here. That Mickey’s not alone in this scene with this crowd that’s out of his comfort level.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Google brought me to VU, it's a real rooftop restaurant in South Chicago - and it looks way out of Mickey's comfort zone :)
> 
> Might as well explore them in the dad roles for a short story - could be entertaining.


	4. A Fork's A Fuckin' Fork

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post-date Mickey

A Fork’s A Fuckin’ Fork

 

He lights a cigarette as soon as they’re on the sidewalk. His palms have been sweaty all night and he’s certain Ian felt the moisture on his lower back when he steered him out of the restaurant like Mickey’s some bitch who can’t find his own fuckin’ exit. 

He takes a long drag, feeling those big green eyes lingering on his lips. Fucker’s fascination with lips, it’s fuckin’ irritatin’, “fuck you lookin’ at?” handing the lit smoke over.

Accepting the smoke, shaking his head the only response to the question. Mickey watches the smokey exhale until it dissipates into the damp city night, “guess I’m s’posed to say thanks or fuckever.”

“It’s customary,” he shrugs that stupid shrug that Mickey hates, “still early. Wanna grab a beer?”

“Nah, gotta be home before ten.”

“Is that the magic bogey man hour?” he smiles that stupid dopey smile that Mickey still hates.

Accepting the smoke when he hands it over. His fingers brush against Ian’s and his breath catches, “no that’s when my babysitter turns into a pumpkin.”

“Oh gotcha,” but the dumbass still looks like Mickey rejected him when his eye contact falters.

“So I have Nat every weekend, but…”

“You want to do a kid date?”

“What?”

“Well, something kid friendly. I mean, since our kids appear to have,” his hand rises, scratching the back of his head, “some issues between them that need to ironed out. We could take them to the batting cages or something? Does Natalie…”

“Natalia.”

“Sorry,” he shrugs, “does she play ball?”

“Well, she ain’t pissed on the base yet if that’s what you’re askin’.”

Goddamn stupid blinding ass smile, “sounds like a date then.”

“Fuck you with that date shit.”

“So, um, can I get your number then?” hope is making these little twinkling lights in his stupid eyes.

“Fuck, you gonna use it?”

“I plan on it.”

“You know, like if you fuckin’ pack up and leave town? At least be a half man about it this time and fuckin’ text me or some shit.”

“I could be a quarter man and DM you.”

“Fuckever that is.”

“It’s…” he starts but the level of Mickey’s eyebrows must register in his head before he finishes, “I’ll check our schedules, and I’ll text you about next weekend. Before Wednesday.”

“Don’t need a fuckin’ play-by-play asshole,” but there is something reassuring about the look in his eye.

“Okay Mick. Well I guess,” his eyes drop to Mickey’s lips.

“Ain’t happenin’ firecrotch,” he turns quickly before he can give into the physical desires raging in his body at the thought of his lips on his. He starts off down the sidewalk quickly before Ian has a chance to do something stupid like offer to walk him home or some girly queer ass bullshit. But of course when he gets to the corner, he doesn’t stop the glance over his shoulder. And just as he suspected that ginger idiot is still standing in the exact place he left him, and the dope waves immediately when he catches his eye. 

————

It’s past 9:30 and that dumb bitch hasn’t texted and hasn’t responded to any of his. Pissed off is the knee jerk response, but worry is the one that’s starting to take firm hold as he hurries up the front porch steps. Pushing the unlocked door open. His mouth is open to shout at her, but when he cranes his head around the entryway doorframe he sees why he didn’t hear a peep from her. They’re both sound asleep on the couch.

Wonder Woman is playing on the TV. That damn kid and her super hero fascination. Fuckever, at least it ain’t princesses. And sure, Wonder Woman is kind of badass. And Captain Marvel, once that bitch figures out the art of a powerful ponytail, fuck, she’ll be unstoppable. Super Girl ain’t so bad herself. 

His hand slides the length of his face, shaking his head to himself as he takes in the Wonder Woman tiara that’s fallen half off her head and is still blinking away. She wore her Bat Girl costume for two Halloweens and then for every other thing the world had to offer until the damn thing wore out. Now this year she’s been askin’ about Sally Ride and Amelia Earhart. Little shit’s going to end up gettin’ out of the Southside by bein’ a fighter pilot or some shit. 

He smiles as he kneels on the floor in front of the couch. Gently removing the tiara and switching it off. Sliding her into his arms. She lets out a huffy protest of air at being removed from the warmth and boniness of her aunt’s side, but instinctively she still turns towards Mickey’s heart. He remembers how fat her cheeks were when she was a baby. The way they’d squish against his chest as she watched him sing to her. 

Yeah, yeah, fuckever, he sang her lullabies every single night. And sure, maybe sometimes he still does. He’d sing and watch her eyes as her lids got heavy against his chest. As they started to droop and fight themselves open again just to watch his face for longer. The lids always won eventually and her breathing would get so whisper soft that sometimes he’d put his finger by her nose just to be sure. Just to feel that warm breath and know it was still coming out. 

Of all the things in his life he never wanted, she was the one thing that he would never be able to be without. He knew that so immediately and so finally, there was no denying it. The very first time he held her and she looked at him through her giant blue eyes, like she could read his damn soul already and she was merely hours old. Damn Russian bitch made him come in the delivery room, then wouldn’t let him hold her until after her first feeding and her first bath with the nurse. But when Svetlana finally passed the fuck out, he lifted her out of the little cradle thingy. Her little mouth was moving, tiny hand fisted up and tucked under her chin, her eyes fluttered open when he moved her but she didn’t cry. She just watched him. He quietly introduced himself and she turned her head towards his heart, her eyelids like delicate butterfly wings closing again. He sat in the rocking chair with her. Bundled up and sleeping in his arms. And he watched her. He watched every single move her little face made. And he fell so madly and so irreversibly in love that it suddenly seemed like everything in his life made sense. And everything in his life was worth dealing with, worth living fully, just to be with that tiny human. 

There’s another huff of protest when he settles her into her bed. Pulling the covers over her, sitting beside her for a moment to watch that face that he adores as full sleep pulls her back into the realm of dreams. Sliding a hand over her braid, kissing her forehead and backing out of the bedroom slowly. Leaving the door open just a crack. A tiny sliver of hall-light spilling into her room. 

“You were supposed to take the night off,” Mandy bosses at him when he’s on the bottom step.

Damn her, “yeah, well you were s’posed to stay asleep so I didn’t have to deal with you right now. And then I could just lie to you in the morning.”

“Oh yeah,” she yawns, “you’ve always been such a good liar,” rolling her eyes, “how bad was it?”

He shrugs, “mind your own business.”

“You are my business,” standing up to unfurl into a stretch in the center of the room, “I guess if you’re not going to enjoy a night out on the town, I will,” she jabs her damn skinny finger into his ribs, “was the food at least good?”

Another shrug, heading to the fridge for something to fill the void, “yeah if you like child sized portions, it was great,” he grabs two beers while the door’s open and hands one to Mandy. Knowing she’s not going to enjoy a night out either at this point. She’s going to sit here and bombard him with fuckin’ questions all night is what she’s going to do. At least he can chase it all down with a beer, or a real fuckin’ drink, not something with a damn plant growing out of it.

He sets the cold lasagne on the kitchen counter and digs in with a fork. Like a real fuckin’ fork, ain’t a this fork for that thing and that fork for this thing bullshit around here. A fork’s a fuckin’ fork and if you can’t find a clean one, just use your damn fingers. Which is exactly what Mandy does. Sidling up beside him and pulling a hunk of cold cheese right off the top with her polished fingernails. The Wonder Woman logo displayed prominently on her middle finger.

“Hope you put Nat’s on her pointer finger at least.”

“She’s got a different logo on each finger actually,” she crosses her eyes at him, flipping him off with the red and gold symbol.

————

Popping the top off a second beer, feeling the buzz rising from the vodka earlier and coming back to life with the beer. Guess whatever the gross plant-growing hipster thing was at the restaurant had some booze in it. 

“That bad, huh?” she leans back in the kitchen chair until the front two feet are off the floor.

“No. I don’t know.”

“I haven’t seen you go for a second beer when Nat’s under your roof, um, ever.”

His middle finger responds for him. 

“I’m actually not being an asshole about it. I think you’re a great dad. Just wondering, is all.”

“Fuck that,” he sighs. The longer he feels her eyes on him, the weaker his shield is becoming, “fine. Fuck. I don’t know. What’s the fuckin’ point? Is all I kept thinkin’.”

“The point of going out on a date? Or going out on a date with Ian?”

“Both. Neither. Either. Take your fuckin’ pick. I ain’t got time for that shit right now. Not even sure I want it. I work long fuckin’ weeks. And I spend all my free time with Nat. I like it that way. She’s only going to want to hang out with me for maybe two more years. Then it’ll be friends and sports and school will take up too much damn time, and eventually boys, and cars, and gettin’ high under the L. And you can bet your ass I’ll be watchin’ her.”

“I know you will,” she grins, kicking his shin under the table, “I don’t think you’ll have to worry about too much shit with her. She’s a good kid. And she is that way because you and Svet are good parents.”

He can feel a smile rising on his face. Pride. That little girl is the only thing he’s ever done that he’s taken pride in.

“But…”

“Oh fuck off with that shit. I’m twenty-eight. I’ll be thirty-eight when she’s eighteen and she leaves the nest. That’s plenty young enough to date, or fuck, or hook-up, or fuckever it is that people think they need a partner for.”

“Support Mick,” she scoffs at him, “partners are for support. I mean, sex is a big plus to having a partner… but it’s having another person that gets you. That you can rely on. That you can…”

“That can pack up his shit and leave town without even fuckin’ wavin’ out the window on the way by.”

“Or that. If his leaving still effects you that much, this many years later…”

“Fuck off,” he grumbles more towards his beer bottle than his sister.

“Fine. Last thing I’m going to point out here is that he also has an eight year old kid. So maybe he’s in the same headspace as you are about dating. You think of that?”

He shrugs. And he has no desire to admit that she just made a valid point. Dumb bitch is already too smug in her observations about his life. She don’t need a pat on the back for it. And he sure in the fuck ain’t about to tell her they’re going out again next weekend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I might as well mess with Mandy too and make their relationship light and easy.


	5. Batter Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a kid date!

Batter Up

 

The Spring sun glaring off his pasty white shoulders is nearly blinding. And so fucking gorgeous Ian wants to reach out and touch his flesh every single time he’s within reach. Holding back, this is a kid date, touching him is out of the question, in any scenario. 

Mickey’s t-shirt with the sleeves ripped off, his worn out and dirty jeans, this is what Ian should have done from the start. Not that snobby restaurant shit. No, this right here, this is Mickey’s comfort zone. Readjusting the helmet on his daughter’s head, taking the steps back to let her swing some practice swings. She’s adorable. And she’s definitely, without a doubt, Mickey’s daughter. The coloring aside, she’s got his attitude. A hard-charging, tough-as-nails, little girl with a cocky strut. The biggest differences he’s noticed so far, the dirty mouth doesn’t exist on her - or at least not yet - and she’s cleaner than Mickey ever was as a kid. Her face isn’t dirty, well, not yet. It probably will be by the end of the day, but that’s how kids are supposed to be. She lacks that permanent dirt and grime that Mickey always had from days or weeks without showers. 

He can’t help the grin that rises when she picks up a clot of dirt and tosses it on the ground in front of her as she lines up for her turn at bat. Kicking up some dust with her feet as she takes her stance. The kid is a mini-Mickey, and she’s the most adorable thing Ian has ever seen. 

When the thought rises, he reaches out to run a guilty hand over Teddy’s head, shaking it back and forth a little. He gets that tight-lipped smile in return and his hand drops to his son’s shoulder. Lingering there until he squirms away. 

Natalia definitely has that powerful Southside swing to back up her swagger. Mickey’s reaction is gorgeous, the smile that sticks to his face while he watches her. It’s pride, but he doesn’t praise her. Not until she’s hit through her entire turn. Then he hands out a high-five, “nice work Babe Ruth.”

He doesn’t pick apart her technique, doesn’t cut her down for the two she missed, doesn’t praise her like she’s the greatest thing that’s ever set foot on this planet. He is just there, supporting her. Walking the line of parenthood without stepping too far in either direction.   
Ian could benefit from being around this. He has a tendency to put a little too much pressure on Teddy. Work harder, be better, swing harder, study longer, run faster. It was something that Becky always harped on him for. But she was too soft with him. And he felt like he was the one that needed to toughen the kid up. Teddy wasn’t going to grow up in a shithole, but he couldn’t just think he owned this world and money grew on trees and everything he ever needed would always be at his fingertips. So maybe Ian came down harder than he needed to. And now Becky’s gone and he doesn’t know how to fill that void for the kid. 

His flaming red hair and the spark of mischief that was always endearing when he was younger, it’s started turning into something else lately. He’s not sure how to define it, and every stage brings a new obstacle to overcome with every kid. He just hasn’t figured out how to overcome this shift in attitude. A new school, a new house, a new city. He’ll have to make new friends and he’ll have to do it all without his mother dropping him off at school every morning and picking him up every night. He’ll have to do it without her hugs and kisses, her made from scratch meals, her gentle smile and delicate protectiveness. 

It’s been hard to discipline him now. Without the pillow soft landing of his mother. And fuck, the last thing he wants is to push him away. 

————

Damn it, even though he knows better, he just can’t help himself when it’s Teddy’s turn to hit. Critiquing every swing. Giving helpful pointers. Even when the kid bites his lower lip and sets his jaw in a hard stubborn line, his swings get less predictable and frustration rises.

“You’re doing great Ted,” Natalia pipes up from where she’s leaned against the fence with her arms crossed over her chest, “follow through.”

All the shit that he thought would come naturally from helping raise his younger siblings, it’s just not working that way with fatherhood. He takes a step back, and a deep breath. Feeling the heat of Mickey’s eyes on him, but he won’t meet his gaze.

“Nice swingin’ Rusty Staub,” Mickey’s hand is out for a high five as Teddy scoffs down the netting.

“Who?”

“Le Grand Orange,” he smirks, “c’mon,” he shrugs, “ain’t a hell of a lot of ginger baseball players, gimme a break here.”

“Uh, Clint Frazier,” Teddy rolls his eyes.

“Or him,” impatiently shaking his high five, “don’t leave me hangin’.”

“Rick Sutcliffe Dad,” Natalia reminds him.

“Damn, fuckin’ Cub. How could I forget,” he finally gets the high five he’s been waiting for, then his smirk turns on Ian, “show us what you got Army.”

————

He won’t taunt the kids, but he’ll definitely taunt Ian. That fucking mouth. He’ll have to remind Teddy never to repeat anything his friend Mickey ever says. He’s well acquainted with the curse word alphabet, compliments of not only the Gallagher clan, but also lingering around in the kitchen of base housing during poker nights with the guys. 

Mickey doesn’t even have to speak to be a distraction, but the dirty words coming out of that pretty mouth, it’s enough to fluster Ian to a point of a swing-and-a-miss. Then another. And a blush rising, sweat starting to rise on his back, fuck. Another miss.

Mickey grunts out a laugh, claps his shoulder and backs away. Letting him swing the rest of his turn with a few solid hits. 

“You’re a dick,” Ian comments, but the smile on his face is calling his bluff, “batter up,” lifting his brow, offering the bat to Mickey. 

His brow lift can’t hold a candle to Mickey’s. Cocky smirk taking over his perfect features as he strides up to the swing zone. Fuck, all Ian wants to do it take his hips in his hands and grind him in close. Bury his nose in his neck and stifle the years since he’s smelled that Mickey-smell. That perfect never replicated scent that he’s never found in another neck in his life. 

Okay, so maybe a sports date with kids was a bad idea. Staring at the way his muscles flex when he swings, his arms that Ian always fucking adored. Doing pull-ups in the dugout on a hot summer night. The cocky smirk and dare in his eyes. The same one he wears now. 

Ian was kidding himself thinking he could leave the Southside and his start a new life. Thinking he could erase the way he felt about this man. The way his entire body has always sparked to life when he’s near. Thinking about it now, it’s fascinating how idiotic he was to just leave. Without a word. 

And now? Now this stubborn piece of trash is giving him a second shot. And if Ian fucks it up, he’s certain it’ll be the last shot.

————

“How do you do it?” he wonders quietly, leaning against the fence, his arm is so close to Ian’s, he can feel the heat rolling off him, “the balancing act of parenthood?”

His face turns and it takes all of Ian’s self control to not dip, not dive, not crash into those perfect lips that are pursed as his brows dip in utter confusion at the question, “kids are just people, man. Ain’t hard. All they want is what we want. Basic needs and love, understanding, patience,” all the shit Mickey never had as a kid.

“Where the fuck did all that patience come from anyway?” it’s a miracle it exists inside of a Milkovich.

He shrugs, tilting his head towards his daughter. She’s rubbing dirt into her palms while she watches Teddy ready himself at bat, “her,” and there’s that smile. The gorgeous incredible smile that Ian is certain only exists for his daughter. 

And he can’t help it any longer. His hand contacts the small of Mickey’s back. The same place he touched him last weekend, and Mickey didn’t punch him then, he has no reason to punch him now. Ian doubts he’s out-and-proud. But he doesn’t shrug him off either. He can feel the heat, the dew of sweat through his shirt. Fuck, the heat of Mickey’s body. It’s another thing that’s never been replicated. It’s a comforting heat, nothing overwhelming about it, it’s like a fireplace on a cold winter night. The kind of heat that spreads slowly and eventually covers every single inch of the body near it. 

“Woe, nice one,” Mickey mentions when Teddy’s hit sends a ball flying. 

A certain strength takes over his stance on the next hit, and he sends it hurling into the nets, it would have been a home run without a doubt if this was an open field.

Ian keeps his mouth shut. He keeps it shut until he’s finished his turn. And then he smiles at him, a reassuring nod and a, “good round buddy.”

He swears he sees a hint of a blush when he hands the bat to Natalia. But he’ll ignore it. The two of them are getting along just fine right now, they have been all day. He won’t tease his son about a crush. 

His hand is still on Mickey’s back, like it’s grown roots there. And Mickey hasn’t shrugged him off, the opposite seems to be happening. Like he’s melting into Ian’s touch. Into the soft gentleness of an innocent touch, a just-to-know-you’re-there kind of touch. 

“Couple of fuckin’ fags,” a voice mumbles behind them. 

Turning their heads in unison to see a man probably ten years older than them with his teenage son. Walking past them to the cage beside them. As he walks, he spits towards the ground at their feet.

He can feel Mickey’s rage starting to boil through that rise in body heat, the clenching of his fists and the hardening of his jaw, “not worth your time,” Ian reminds him.

“Fuck,” he sighs, through gritted teeth, his eyes lingering on the guy. But he stays where he is. He keeps his mouth shut. His attention shifts over to his daughter, nostrils staying flared, jaw working hard. The longer he watches her, the calmer he gets.

Until he steps back up for his turn when the guy tells his son, in a loud enough voice for the whole area to hear, “fuckin’ pansy ass pole-smokin’ queer, his wrists are too limp to hold that bat.”

Red creeps up Mickey’s neck, but he holds it together. He makes his hits with the bat. He makes them good and hard. His swing is powerful and not even a homophobe can deny that. But the asshole spits at his feet when he turns back towards Ian and the kids.

“Alright, time’s up,” Mickey slides his wallet out of his back pocket, slaps a twenty into Ian’s palm, “bring the kids over to the ice cream shop,” pointing in the general direction, “I’ll meet you over there.”

“Mick, it’s not…”

“Yeah it is,” his eyebrows are up and he’s leveling Ian with that glare that makes it clear he won’t be talked out of handing out an ass beating. The only thing Ian wishes, is that he could stay here and watch. He knows Mickey won’t need him to step in. He’s got his temper mastered enough now that he won’t kill the guy. And there’s no way in hell, even if the teenager stepped in, that Mickey would need back-up.

“C’mon,” he tries again.

“Yeah, c’mon you little fairy,” the guy taunts.

Turning his head a few times to loosen his neck, “I’ll meet you over there,” he grins at his daughter, “make sure you order extra Snickers pieces for mine,” patting her head.

This fuckin’ guy. 

“Daddy, what’s a pole-smokin’ queer?”

“Well, Kiddo,” he rubs his knuckles along her head, “it’s what your dad is. Now get out of here, I’ll meet you over there.”

Ian can’t hide the smile on his face as slips his hands over the ears on the far side of each kids’ heads when they start walking, pressing their close ears into his sides, knowing there’s about to be a shitstorm of words neither one of them needs to hear. But as he rounds the corner out of the area, he doesn’t stifle the grin rising on his face to the sound of Mickey’s voice proclaiming, “the only thing I like better than suckin’ dick is kickin’ ass.”

————

“Why’d that man call Daddy a fairy?” her eyes are so blue, and they’re so full of confusion, “he doesn’t have wings.”

“And why would his wrists be limp?” Teddy chimes in.

“I, um, it’s just,” steering them inside the shop, “what do you want to order?”

Both faces are still staring at him, waiting for an explanation. Of course, of course Ian is flanked by a redhead and a blue-eyed brunette and they’re asking about homophobic slurs. Why wouldn’t this happen?

“You can get anything you want. Just don’t ruin dinner.”

“Ooh, Daddy made spaghetti sauce,” she grins up at him, “maybe you can come over for dinner. Spaghetti’s my favorite,” when she talks, her top right tooth wiggles.

“I don’t see why not,” he shrugs at the invitation, “but I’ll have to ask your dad first.”

“Why? He don’t care.”

“Doesn’t care.”

“Doesn’t care. There’s always some random mouths to feed at our house on weekends. That’s why he makes the big things on Saturdays. Like spaghetti, sometimes chili, goulash, but spaghetti’s my favorite. Aunt Mandy likes Daddy’s lasagne the best. Sometimes he makes the winter stuff with carrots and spinach in it,” her nose scrunches up.

“Eww. Spinach,” Teddy adds his dislike of the green leaf into the conversation.

Fuck, dodged a bullet there. For now anyway. 

————

No sirens. That’s a plus. But it’s been awhile. Long enough that Ian is starting to sweat, obsessively checking his watch. They took a table outside. And Mickey’s Snickers sundae is starting to get melty on the edges of the bowl. 

Fuck. Where is he?

It never used to take long to hand out an ass beating. That guy looked like nothing to sneeze at, but fuck. Maybe he had a knife or something. Maybe the kid was worth more than just a stringy teenage boy. Shit. Ian needs to go back there. Now.

“Hey, can you guys…”

“Did you get extra Snickers Button-nose?” 

She rolls her eyes at the nickname as he plops down beside her.

“You got hit,” Ian wonders in shock, not stopping himself from reaching out with a napkin to wipe at the trickle of blood trailing down his cheek from a cut along his cheekbone.

He dodges the incoming napkin, “yes, I fuckin’ know I got hit. Gave the fucker the first swing, fuck,” he shakes his hands out like he’s uncertain of whether he wants to punch Ian or just eat his damn ice cream before it’s nothing more than a puddle in a bowl.

“Hold still,” demanding, his free hand taking solid hold of Mickey’s chin, tilting his head to the right angle for a good look at the cut.

“Okay Doc Gallagher.”

“He’s not a doctor,” Teddy pipes up around his mouthful of ice cream, “he’s a nurse.”

“That so?”

“Yeah. He’s so good at it, they hired him to be in charge at the hospital. That’s why we moved to Chicago. Instead of staying in the Army.”

“We’ll clean it when we get home,” Ian announces before Mickey can respond to his son. Or before the conversation can get any deeper than that. Or the topic of Becky rises. Not yet, he can’t deal with that just yet. And not in front of the kids. 

“Home?” he wonders, his eyes narrow slightly but his mouth rises into a cocky smile.

“Yeah, I invited them over for spaghetti,” Natalia looks over at him, seemingly not noticing the blood on his face, or the bruises on his knuckles. 

“Oh you did, did you?”

“Mmhmm. Daddy, why was that guy…” or she notices.

“Some people just don’t know how to mind their own business kid,” he smiles at her, “that’s why Mommy always says ‘when everyone minds his own business the work is done’.”

“Okay, okay,” she sighs heavily, looking at him in defeat.

“Eat your ice cream before I do,” he reaches out to tweak her nose.

“Why are you letting me eat ice cream before dinner anyway?”

“Why do you ask so many questions?”

“Because curiosity might have killed the cat, but I never met the cat, so it’s not like I can be sure that’s even true.”

There is no sense in trying to argue that. And there is absolutely no sense in trying to stifle the laugh that rises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Baseball, kicking some ass, ice cream with Snickers - that sounds more like a Mickey kind of date!
> 
> I can't take credit for the sucking dick/kicking ass comment. A friend of my husband is responsible for that line. I liked it, so I'm borrowing it :)


	6. A Real Dad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So how exactly did 100% gay Ian Gallagher end up becoming a father?

A Real Dad

 

“Daddy, can we watch A League Of Their Own when we get home?”

“No. But maybe after dinner.”

“Okay. Is it ‘cause it’s too nice out to be inside?”

“Yep,” he slides his hand over her head, pulling her into his side for a quick squeeze while she eyes him, “now run up to the corner and back. You have all kinds of energy to burn.”

“I’ll race you!” the little redheaded Gallagher exclaims as they take off.

“You, um, you don’t have to have us over for dinner, you know? I mean, kids…”

“Fuck if I care, man. What the kid wants, the kid gets. Within reason,” he shrugs, “s’pose havin’ a friend over for dinner ain’t that bad.”

The sun is playing games with the tones of Ian’s hair and it’s wildly distracting. So is his stupid dopey smile. And here they are, alone again. Fuck.

“Hospital, huh?”

“Yeah. Army trained me, I spent some time working at Walter Reed. But, I don’t know. Ended up missing Chicago more than I thought I would. Saw a position open here and applied for it when my enlistment was up.”

“Big shot in charge?”

“Well,” his ears turn a little pink and Mickey thinks it’s just as fuckin’ adorable as it ever was, “head nurse. But it’s…”

His hand clamps down on Ian’s shoulder, “that’s cool, man.”

His head turns, eyes lingering on Mickey’s for a moment like he’s trying to decide if there’s something else behind the compliment. Finally shrugging as Mickey removes his hand. Fuck it if the butterflies didn’t just clog his damn throat and make it impossible to say anything else.

“I win!” pulls his attention back to the kids, who have turned and started back towards them at full speed ahead. Glee and uncontrolled childish happiness, the sound and sight of it lowering itself over Mickey. Fuck, how idiotic could he possibly be? Two fuckin’ dates in and he’s already letting himself be overtaken by this ginger fuckface and his damn kid. 

————

“This is why I fuckin’ hate ice cream,” he sighs, leaning his elbow back on the porch step at his back, lighting a cigarette. The kids are running around the side lot like maniacs. Screaming louder than the damn L going by.

Ian snorts out a laugh, “it was your suggestion.”

He waves him off with his hand between them, “that or watch me kick the shit out of some homophobe.”

His green eyes linger on Mickey’s face, a stupid twinkle in them and a proud smile when he announces, “so, I take it you’re out now?”

“Why, ‘cause I told some shithead I like suckin’ dick?”

“That, and you told your daughter you’re a pole-smoking queer.”

He shrugs, handing over the smoke, “guess I did. Fuckever Gallagher, same thing.”

“I know that,” he grins, looking at Mickey like he’s an idiot.

“Does it matter? My ex-wife knows I’m gay. Nat knows what it means to be gay, she don’t give a shit one way or another. I’m just ‘Dad’ to her, that’s all that matters.”

“Your family?”

“Like Mandy? Yeah. Iggy, probably. Fuck if I care, man.”

“So you’re basically out without coming out?”

“Yeah, sure. What do you want me to do, start wearin’ rainbow shirts and shit?”

“You should probably style your hair, run like a chick, and get manicures while you’re at it.”

“Hey, runnin’ like a chick ain’t a bad thing.”

“I know. Fiona could always outrun me. Just saying. So, um, how long did you stay married?”

“Nat was three when we officially divorced. But it’s not like we were like a real couple. Ever.”

“No? How’d you end up knocking her up then?”

“Ask you the same thing Mr. Mattachine Midwest.”

“Fuck you,” handing the smoke back.

Against Mickey’s lips, the paper that was just against Ian’s lips and it makes him crave the real thing. Worse than any nicotine habit could ever be. He doesn’t respond vocally, just keeps his gaze on Ian’s face, re-memorizing every freckle on his nose.

His voice drops to barely audible, “he’s not mine. Not biologically.”

“Huh? How could he not be?”

“Why? ‘Cause he looks like me?” now his face turns, looking Mickey dead in the eye. That same old stubborn set of his jaw.

“Fuckin’ red hair…”

“You know who else had red hair?” his eyes are getting narrow, “his mom. His mom had red hair.”

“Had?”

“Yeah. She died last year. And I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing with him anymore. It seemed so fucking easy before. And now it’s just me, and I’m not even his real dad.”

Out of reflex, Mickey’s hand drops to cover Ian’s on his thigh. He fucking hates when this ginger dope gets all down on himself for somethin’ he can’t really control, “hey, you’re doing fine Ian.”

“Aside from not disciplining him to your standards.”

“Look, I get it. It’s hard to know where to draw that line. And if you’re fuckin’ figurin’ out how to do it alone, it’s…”

He shakes Mickey’s hand off his, reaching for the smoke to distract himself. Gathering his thoughts, taking a few deep breaths after he lets the smoke slowly roll out of his lips towards Spring’s blue sky, “I met Becky shortly after basic. We became friends. Nothing more. Until she ended up pregnant. And the guy, Teddy’s real father, he was a total asshole. Like, the type of asshole that leaves marks where no one’s going to see them. He didn’t know yet that she was pregnant, I got into it with him one night. I don’t know, I just snapped. I beat the hell out of him, I told him to leave and never contact Becky again. And I told him that I knocked her up. Then, fuck, I don’t know. When he actually didn’t come back and Becky didn’t have healthcare or…”

His voice trails off and he watches the boy for a long moment before his eyes meet Mickey’s again, “kill two birds with one stone. She gets decent healthcare through me and I get a convincing beard,” he shrugs.

“That’s like three birds dickbag. Kid gets a good dad too. Like a real dad, so don’t do that shit, alright? That ‘his real dad was a dick thing’, ‘cause you’re mostly a dick, but you ain’t all bad. And you are his real dad.”

The idiot looks so relieved Mickey’s not sure if he should smile at him or punch him for being such a dummy in the first place. Like Mickey was gonna judge him or something? Fuckever, “you know my dad Ian. And you had Frank. So discipline problems ain’t nothin’. Just make sure that little fucker keeps his hands off my daughter from here on out,” his finger rises in the air between them, jabbing into Ian’s chest, “got it?”

“Got it,” he sighs, his expression is softening, and that is not the effect Mickey was hoping to have on him, “hands to himself,” as his hand slides over Mickey’s lower back.

Fuck that annoying fuck, rememberin’ that’s his damn tickle spot. Rising goosebumps up his spine and a shiver that he stifles the hell out of.

————

She’s covered in fuckin’ spaghetti. Slurpin’ the noodles like she’s been starvin’ for weeks and this is the first real meal she’s had in her life. Fuckever, ain’t like she’s got anybody to impress. At least she covers her mouth with her hand when she belches, a tiny giggle and a light pink blush when Teddy laughs. That little fucker better not be gettin’ any ideas about hanging out with his daughter. Not in the way Gallaghers hang out with people. And Ian’s dopey fuckin’ face, it keeps smilin’ at him from across the table. 

Fuck, of all the Saturdays for no one else to appear out of thin air like they normally do. Iggy, Colin, Mandy, sometimes Svet if she’s not working. Fuck, not a single one of them could materialize today. Take some fuckin’ pressure off, make this shit feel less domestic or something. Last thing he needs is for Ian Gallagher to get any ideas. 

“It’s s’posed to rain tomorrow Daddy.”

“And you’re s’posed to use a napkin on-top-of-spaghetti.”

She scoffs at him, raising her napkin to her face, one smear of it and a cheesy grin at him. She only got about half the shit off her face. ‘Least it ain’t in her hair, “can we go to the children’s museum?”

“I don’t know. You got homework due Monday?”

“Yes.”

“Then not until the homework is done. And your mom said if we missed girl scouts this weekend we’d be in trouble,” he raises his eyebrows at her.

“Did she have a hammer in her hand when she said it?”

“Yes,” he leans forward to whisper it close to her face.

“Uh oh. We better go then. Why can’t we do cool stuff there? Like learn how to live off the land?”

“‘Cause no one in the city knows how to live off the land.”

Ian snickers at that comment, “doesn’t take long to get out of the city. We could plan a weekend camping trip sometime this summer. If you guys are up for it?”

“Yeah!” both kids respond with triumphant glee.

Mickey rolls his eyes. Fuckin’ last thing he wants is to be out of civilization with those stupid green eyes and two kids, “we’ll see,” he taps Nat’s nose, “now if you’re done, clear the table and load the dishwasher.”

“Moving up in the world. Dishwasher?”

“You remember that old piece of shit at the old place? Fuckin’ thing was a dinosaur.”

“It melted Mandy’s favorite plastic cup when we were teenagers,” he smiles and it takes every single tiny shred of control Mickey owns not to jump over the fucking table and drag him into a sloppy fuckin’ spaghetti tastin’ kiss. 

Staring at him with a stupid smile plastered on his face that he can feel is stupid and cheesy until it gets uncomfortable and Ian clears his throat, “where’d the recipe come from? Hands-down best spaghetti I’ve ever eaten.”

Nervously chugging his water as he listens to the kids rinsing plates and loading them into the dishwasher, swallowing hard, “my Ma’s recipe box. ‘Parrently it came from some old bar owner. All her recipes are all fuckin’ labeled nice and neat, and the stories of their origins are printed on the back. Most of her shit came from her mom. But the spaghetti one came from some joint she worked at when she was a teenager. Sounds like a fuckin’ mobster type joint. But they’d make a big pot of spaghetti every Sunday for the old drunk regulars. Probably the only meal most of ‘em had each week.”

Ian’s lookin’ at him like he just told him the secret to fuckin’ life. What a dumb fuck. HIs stupid graceful fingers trace over the rim of his water glass, “what, um, what was your mom like? Mandy never really talked about her either.”

He shrugs. So yeah, they spent all their time in high school fuckin’, wasn’t much talkin’ involved, “I don’t know, man. She used to plant flowers in the window boxes every spring. She made us use our manners and shit. Sang us fuckin’ Ukrainian lullabies,” he shrugs, “I was like ten when she died, so…”

“How’d she die?”

“Fuckin’ cancer or some shit. She was, like fine one day, sick as a dog the next. Took her quick anyway,” his chest is getting all foggy at the thought of her and he wants to tell Ian to fuck off, but he’s probably only askin’ for the sake of his kid, “keep some fuckin’ pictures of her out and fuckin’ talk to him about her,” he shrugs again, “he won’t forget her if you don’t,” and now his stupid fuckin’ fingers are sliding across the table and landing on Ian’s, giving them a tight squeeze and releasing as butterflies flap right up into his stupid throat and choke off any more words that could possibly exit. Until he adds, “only reason that stupid plastic cup was Mandy’s favorite is ‘cause it was from the last time Mom took her to the fuckin’ McDonald’s,” thumbing his nose to force the rising emotions back down where they belong as he pushes his chair out from the table to stand. 

That stupid lanky ginger fuck moves quick. He’s around the table and sliding his dumb warm hands over Mickey’s cheeks until they meet the back of his head, tilting it back and pressing his stupid soft spaghetti-tastin’ lips against Mickey’s. Lips parting delicately, tongue gently running along Mickey’s lower lip likes he’s tryin’ to get the last speck of sauce off of it before Mickey opens his mouth.  
Fuck, he wants to fall apart in his arms and against his lips. He wants to latch onto the back of his head and drag him into his bedroom. But the kids are in the kitchen right behind them. And that shit ain’t happenin’ yet anyway. Mickey’s not about to bring a guy into his life when it would effect his daughter’s life too. He ain’t about to bring Ian into this shit, just to have him rip his heart of his chest and stomp on it on his way to something and someone better than the Southside, better than the piece of trash he couldn’t get away from fast enough a decade ago. 

He feels his hand come down on Ian’s chest, giving him the nudge, the little shove. This ain’t the time or place for this shit. He draws away slow, keeping Mickey’s face in his hands, his damn nose nuzzles against Mickey’s as he turns his head to see what the kids are doing. Mickey can’t fucking breathe, his heart has thoroughly clogged his throat and the blood rushing in his ears has made him deaf to the sounds of his kitchen. All he can process is the presence of Ian. 

Fuck him. He grins that stupid grin that translates to something like ‘I win’ before his lips come crashing into Mickey’s again. Smoldering with passion and lingering until they’re both breathless before he pulls away, squeezing Mickey’s ass cheek and heading to the kitchen.

Jesus Christ, now he’s standin’ here with a half-wood and nowhere to put it. Fuck. Old ladies. The way their skin is all wrinkly and they always have lipstick on their teeth. Their perfume that invades your mouth as soon as they’re in the room. And their sloppy wet kisses that you can’t dodge. Fuck.

That’ll do it. Stupid dick. Fuck. Damn it, he beat off in the shower this morning in hopes of avoiding any pent up sexual frustrations. But he certainly wasn’t planning on a fucking kiss. A kiss that brought his desires back to fucking life and now he’s not sure how the fuck he managed to survive without that idiot’s kisses for the last decade. Fuck him.

And now all three of them are laughing. And it’s like fucking music. Amazing fucking music and he’s wishing his mom was still around for this shit. She’d love her granddaughter so fuckin’ much.

Fuck, and now he feels like kind of a dick for goin’ full speed ahead with his accusations of shitty parenting. ‘Course the kid is fuckin’ confused and shit, his mom just died and he had to move to a new city. Mickey didn’t have to move to a new city when Nadiya died, and he still turned into a dick to hide the fear and loneliness that was always fuckin’ ragin’ in his body. Without her, he’d be the only one who was capable of protecting Mandy. Without her, he’d be the only one responsible enough to put meals on the table. And the only way to do that back then was to fight for it. Fight Terry, and Colin, and Iggy. Fight his instincts and his nature and the things he truly wanted for his future. Fit into the fuckin’ mold his father expected of him and do the things he ordered him to do without questioning it.  
Gallagher might be a big old softy when it comes to disciplining his kid, but at least he ain’t some dickhead who uses a belt or a pipe or a fuckin’ wooden spoon to get his point across. Whatever he could get his damn hands on. Fuck Terry. Fucker’s six feet under now and ain’t nobody alive who misses him.

————

“Can we start the movie now?” she has that edge of whine in her voice that’s going to turn to overtired and crabby here pretty fuckin’ soon.

He made her wash up, she wasn’t dirty enough for a full shower; brush her teeth, and put her pajamas on. She scoffed at him and rolled her eyes, but the company was gone for the night and he knew she’d drag out the bed time routine until midnight if he let her.

“Show me your teeth.”

Crossing her eyes as she shows off her pearly whites.

“K. Put your damn movie on. I gotta put on some sweats, fuck jeans.”

“Daddy?” she wonders, settling in on the couch.

“What?” he stops in the doorway of his bedroom to wait for her question to come spilling out.

A giant yawn comes out first, “it’s okay, you know? To be a homosexual. You can’t let anyone make you feel bad about that. It’s just as natural as your eye color and your potty mouth. It’s just part of you.”

A swell of pride rises in his chest and he wants to tell her so many things but he can’t speak over the ball of emotions that’s blocking his words.

“Oh,” she sighs, punching her little fists into the pillow to flatten it out just right, “Mr Gallagher ain’t so bad. I mean, if you’re going to date someone… I guess, you know, Teddy’s not the worst either. I think he just didn’t know how to make new friends so that’s why he was being mean to me. You know? ‘Cause he wanted to be my friend.”

“I think you’re right, kid,” his voice sounds all thick and he hates that. But he only sort of hates that. ‘Cause she’s right, and it’s also okay when your daughter makes you turn to mush on the inside. 

And his stupid damn mushy fuckin’ heart is just about full to bursting when he looks at his phone while he changes his pants and sees a text from Ian. 

‘Had a great time today Mick. Maybe we can get the kids together again next weekend?’

Fuck him. ‘Don’t see why the fuck not.’

‘That’s exactly what I thought you’d say.’ And one of those stupid emoji things that Mickey never fully understands what exactly they’re s’posed to mean. ‘Cept the poop one, that's just funny. And the middle finger. So he sends them both. 

‘Night Mick.’

‘Night Firecrotch.’

Fuckin’ asshole. Got him smilin’ like a fuckin’ idiot. Already.

So much for being some tough Southside thug.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will always maintain that whoever wrote the Ian-sleeps-with-a-woman storyline was someone who had never watched the show before.


	7. Us, The Beach

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian and Teddy have an important chat. 
> 
> Some Spring and Summer dates together.

Us, The Beach

 

‘Night Firecrotch’. It’s so simple, but it has him smiling like he just won the damn Stanley Cup. Speaking of, “who you betting on tonight Teddy?”

He’s already sitting on the couch, he’s slumped a little forwards, elbows on knees, chin in his hands. His pajamas are on, teeth brushed, “Preds,” he mumbles towards the floor.

Ian sits down next to him. Not close enough to touch. But his hand lands gently on his square bony shoulder. He knows exactly why he’s rooting for the Nashville Predators. Mom’s team. It doesn’t look good for them this year and Ian hates to see Teddy’s heart broken over it. Like some kind of cosmic force could give them the win they need to stay in it, just for the sake of an eight year old boy who’s dead mom loved the team. Mostly because she loved the atmosphere in the arena and their jerseys made her think of her brother.

“I miss her too,” it’s all he can say. It’s all he’s ever been able to say, “should we take a trip sometime this summer to see Uncle Aaron?”

He nods, uninspired and Ian can practically hear the tears biting at the back of his eyes. He’s feeling the pull, the want to be a man and not cry over missing his mom. He wants to shake Ian’s grasp off and watch the game without getting upset. He wants to squish those memories and just root for a team based off performance and players and heart. Instead of her memory. 

He feels a lone tear escape his own eye and he wants Teddy to look at him. To see that he’s a man and he cries sometimes. To see that it’s okay, it’s okay to miss her and wish she was still here and want so badly to understand why it had to happen this way. 

He feels his hand start to absently rub his shoulder-blade and hears him gasp. Ian’s hand trails over his neck, finds his other shoulder and gives him a tug towards his side. He doesn’t fight it. The sobs wrench Ian’s guts and he remembers what Mickey said. Keep pictures out and talk about her. He doesn’t have nearly enough pictures out. He’ll blame that on being a relatively new living arrangement, but it’d be an excuse. He had photos of her, and them, up at their old place on base. But for some reason when they moved, it felt like too much. It felt like the eyes of the woman that wanted to raise her son to adulthood, through adulthood, into middle-age. She wanted to be there for his first day of school every single year, every game played and competition participated in, every school function and PTA meeting. She wanted to be there when he walked across the stage for his diploma and started a new chapter in his life. She wanted to be there for every bedtime story until he was too old for bedtime stories and then she’d milk it out for another six months. She wanted to be there for his first heartbreak and his first life-affirming moment. She wanted to be there for every single dull boring moment that only a parent could love. 

Fuck, his hands slide through Teddy’s hair and he’s so fucking glad it’s red like his mother’s. It’s a little curly and it’s so soft. He remembers laying Teddy on his chest when he was a baby, the first time he spiked a fever over a tooth, he tipped back in the recliner, took his shirt off, and let Teddy regulate off his own body heat. He was snotty and red-cheeked and had spent half the night crying. Becky had been up all night trying to coax him to nurse. Ian had stayed out of it, knowing the pressure of sucking was only making him more irritable, but that’s not the thing a nursing mother running off zero sleep and pure maternal instinct, wants to hear. When she finally passed out on the floor of the nursery and Teddy slept for maybe an hour before he was up and fussing again, Ian slid a blanket over her and took Teddy to the living room. He gave him the infant Tylenol that Becky was so opposed to and he held him against his chest in the recliner.

He held him there, his soft delicate baby skin against his own. His tiny diapered bottom under Ian’s hands. HIs head tucked under Ian’s chin and he hummed to him, his face tilted against the top of his orange wisps of hair. He hummed until he fell asleep. And then he just sat there and breathed. He felt the rhythm of his tiny heart, he listened to his breathing and the sound of his sleep-sucking. He let his warmth invade his chest and he fell madly in love with the little boy that didn’t carry a single gene of his, but he was still his son. 

He’ll always be his son. His face turns now, landing in that red hair and pressing a kiss against him, “your mom grew up in Nashville, so she was a big fan of country music. But she hated most of the stuff they play on mainstream, she grew up on the classics. Her dad played guitar and her mom played the fiddle. Becky learned them both. Her singing voice was Dolly Parton, but when she really got into it, she rasped like Janis Joplin. She loved going out for karaoke but I liked it best when she would get out a guitar and sing in the living room. Her favorite sad song was ‘A Good Year For The Roses’ the George Jones version. Her favorite upbeat song was Gretchen Wilson’s ‘Redneck Woman’, but I think that was only because of the Christmas lights on year ‘round line. Because it reminded her of home. She loved Willie Nelson and Patsy Cline. I swear I know every song they ever sang because of her.”

His finger doesn’t bother rising to flick away the tear that’s streaming down his face into his son’s hair, “but the thing she loved most in the world was you. Every single moment that she had with you was her favorite moment on this Earth. And you know, I think she’s still here,” his arm wraps around Teddy’s body, giving him a suffocatingly tight squeeze to his side, “I think she’s going to live forever in your heart,” his voice stutters and he buries his face in Teddy’s hair, “and mine.”

Later, when he turns into a ton of bricks against Ian’s side, he texts Debbie. He’s going to need her crafting expertise to put together as many photo albums as possible of their lives with Becky.

————

“I left Teddy in the cart at the grocery store, car seat and all when he was about six months old. Walked out with the groceries, and no kid.”

“That ain’t nothin’ man,” Mickey’s lips pursed as he tosses the ball in the air and swings the bat. The connection is hard and directly out to center field where they’ll both have to run for it, “I was givin’ Nat a bath in one of those plastic tub things out on the porch when she was like three months old. The little bastard shit in the water so I emptied it. I was too fuckin’ stupid to weigh it back down before I walked in the house for more warm water. Hear this fuckin’ crash. My heart seriously stopped in my goddamn throat. I thought for sure she was dead. The sound of her cryin’ was,” his hand lands on his heart now, just thinking about it, “fuck. Don’t think I’d ever been relieved to hear a baby cry before.”

“Damn. That’s a pretty bad one. I left Teddy on the pot when he was potty training. Turned to the sink to start shaving, thinking he was fine just sitting there waiting. But he reached for a rubber ducky out of the tub and fell off the pot. The sound of his face hitting the floor…”

“Fuck man. I think we’re shitty dads,” he laughs.

“Nah. We just were there for all the bad shit along with the good shit,” hoisting himself up on the make-shift pull-up bar as the kids wrestle over the ball in center field, “most dads don’t get the opportunity to fuck up that type of stuff.”

He can feel Mickey’s eyes on him and he wants to fucking melt. The dugout. The field where Mickey pissed on first base and got kicked off their little league team. The place they used to go to escape it all back in high school. Mostly it ended in shotgunning beers and fucking. But sometimes, every once in a great while, they’d talk instead of bang. Only place Mickey ever let that guard down. He let Ian kiss him. Like really kiss him. It was back here one night when they were high as fuck, but when the weed induced giggles died down and Mickey’s gorgeous face was so close, it was so close and Ian couldn’t stop himself. The memory of it alone sends tingles up his spine.

“Twenty,” dropping to the ground with a smile, “what do you got Southside?”

“Oh really? Twenty? And you’re gonna talk shit to me?” sucking his cheeks into his teeth for a minute while he eyes Ian from head to toe, like he can see right through his clothes. Cocky smirk, knowing exactly what’s under them anyway, he hops up to the bar and fires out twenty-five pull-ups. Of course. 

Ian shakes his head to himself behind Mickey’s back as he watches him hang there just to prove his point. Whatever, the guy probably swings a sledgehammer at work all day. It’s better than the shit he used to do though. He’s got that self-assured smile on his face and Ian wants so badly to wipe it off by kissing him. Rough and dirty, exactly the way they’ve always kissed. But this isn’t exactly his Mickey. Not anymore, this is a Mickey that Ian is falling head over heals for so fucking quickly he’s certain there’s no way to deny it. And maybe this time around they should do things the right way. They should talk and kiss and hold hands and go on dates. They should get to know each other for real before the clothes come off. 

So instead of grabbing him, instead of smashing into him, and grinding him close, Ian just smiles back. And when the kids come rushing back into the dugout he swats Teddy’s butt and hollers, “first one around the bases gets to pick next weekend’s date!”

————

It’s the park, and go-karts, and Chuck-E-Cheese and when summer rolls around it’s barbecues in the neighborhood and the beach. The beach. And there is nothing on this Earth that can even come close to comparing to the sight of Mickey covered in sand chasing the kids into the waves. It’s sandcastles and frisbee, burying Daddy in the sand up to his neck, and writing their names where the waves can’t reach them. It’s splash wars and the sun glinting off the lake’s smooth surface just before it’s turns into pinks and reds smearing across the sky like a watercolor painting and the kids are both sound asleep on the beach blanket. 

And it’s them. It’s just the two of them. And his eyes, his gorgeous eyes reflecting every memory past and every instance of their future together. And he’s so fucking gorgeous and Ian is so fucking lucky he gave him a second shot. And when he kisses him, it lingers. It stays like a softly glowing flame all warm and dancing in a gentle breeze inside Ian’s chest. It stays there, and he realizes it’s always been there, it was lit when he was fourteen years old and he felt Mickey’s flesh under his fingertips for the first time. It was there when he was sixteen and Mickey kissed him hard and fast for the first time. It was there every single time he smiled at him. Every single time his eyes glanced over his face and lingered on his lips. 

It just took ten years of denying it, of trying to find it elsewhere, to finally understand that nothing else could ever compare. That Mickey was a part of him, quite possibly the best part of him. 

His hand slides through Mickey’s still damp hair when their lips release. Only to lean forehead to forehead for a deep inhale, “fuck, Mick, I love you.”

It lingers in the tiny space between them. Long enough that Ian wishes he could reach out and take it back before it lands on Mickey’s ears. That was fucking stupid. And Mickey doesn’t feel the same way. He’s just waiting, waiting for the other shoe to drop. For Ian to pack up and leave without a word. 

He can feel that tension rising in the back of his neck, his instinct to run. To leave first, to be the one to walk away before Ian can ditch him, “Mick. Please, hear me out,” his fingers clench down against his flesh, holding him in tight, keeping his face against his own, “I know that I should have talked to you. Back then, I should have at least told you. I should have told you when I was fourteen fucking years old that I already loved you. That I already knew it was you that made me whole. I should have told you that I didn’t care, I didn’t care if you were afraid to come out, I’d still be here. I’d wait. I’d support you when you did feel safe to come out. I’d fucking hide in that closet with you for as long as you fucking wanted. Maybe it would have changed things. Maybe it would have made you see that you’re worth so much more than just a hook-up. Fuck,” he sighs when Mickey’s breath hitches. 

Ian’s free hand slides across his cheek, “but it’s true. I do love you. I always have. I always will. Nothing will ever change that. And you don’t have to feel it, you don’t have to say it back. Not until you’re ready. Not until you know for certain that I’m not leaving again. I’m not going to tuck tail and run as soon as shit gets complicated. I’m in it now, whether you want me or not, I’m not going anywhere,” his fingers find the handles of his jaw, tilting his head back to look in his eyes, “I love you.”

******Flashback******

“I don’t know what you want me to do, man,” he takes an angry drag off his cigarette, “ain’t like I got a say in the matter.”

“But you do! Your dad is a psychotic prick who…”

“You don’t know shit about it,” his hand rises in the space between them, his eyebrows high on his forehead, “you want me to put a fuckin’ bullet in his head, huh? That what you want? That’ll solve shit?”

“It wouldn’t hurt.”

“Yeah, well Gallagher, I ain’t got a Fiona to shelter me. I got Colin who would rather kick my fuckin’ teeth in for bein’ a fag than start a fuckin’ squirrel fund or whatever the fuck you assholes call it. And I got an Iggy who’s so fuckin’ high all the time he wouldn’t even notice if the fuckin’ house burned down around him. And what about Mandy, huh? I got a fuckin’ record a mile long. You think I’d get guardianship over her if somethin’ happened to Terry? Nah, she’d end up in a group home ’til she’s eighteen. Think of that?”

“Mick, you don’t have to keep doing his dirty work, you…”

“Jesus fucking Christ Gallagher! You ever hear a fucking word that comes out of my mouth! I gotta keep a roof over our heads! Me! Just me. I ain’t got Fiona. Or Lip. And what? You want me to fuckin’ announce to the whole fuckin’ Southside that I’m a fuckin’ big ol’ ‘mo? You want me to put up a fuckin’ sign in front of the house - Milkovich House Of Horrors: Home Of Mickey The Fucking Biggest Fag In Chicago - or what? Just start introducin’ myself as Mickey the homo? The fuck you want from me Gallagher?” he leans away like he’s going to either punch the wall or turn and leave, voice falling to a deadly whisper, “you know what my dad would do to me if he found out I’m with you. And he’d probably do it to you too.”

Ian grabs his arm, leaning into his face and telling him, “I want you to be free.”

Both of Mickey’s hands come down hard against Ian’s chest, shoving him away before they grasp his shirt and yank him back in. His nose brushes against Ian’s and his breath catches in his throat. Mickey’s eyes are lit with fire, burning holes into Ian’s soul, “Ian, what you and I have makes me free,” eyes are darting back and forth between Ian’s eyes and his lips, “but I ain’t skippin’ down the fuckin’ rainbow, alright?”

When he releases his shirt it feels so fucking final. As he watches him walk away into the darkened Chicago streets, it feels like his soul is tearing away from his body. Like the one thing, the only thing that ever made him feel alive, is walking away from him that easily. 

And the next morning when he walks down for school, he stops at the recruitment depot and signs up. He gets on the bus on his eighteenth birthday without looking back.

******

Teddy didn’t grunt or sigh, his eyes stayed shut, he was dead weight in Ian’s arms all the way to the house and into his bed. Tucking him in just under the sheet and kissing his forehead, “I love you buddy.”

He leaves the door open a crack and takes the steps at a jog back down to the front porch where Mickey is smoking a cigarette, watching the car where his daughter is sound asleep in the backseat. As soon as his head turns in the glow of the porch light, fuck, he’s even beautiful bathed in that hideous yellow halo, Ian shoves the hand with the cigarette down to his side, holding his wrist tightly there as he presses into his lips. Free hand landing on his lower back, holding him close. 

He kisses him until his lips are sore, his breath is strangled, and his dick is ready to split through his zipper, pulling away only to linger close, “stay.”

His rough calloused hand rises to tap on Ian’s cheek, “I can’t man,” motioning towards the car.

“I have a guest room Mick. She’ll be fine in there. Leave the door open. She might wake up in a weird place, but she’s been in our house enough times that she’ll realize where she is soon enough.”

He leans away from Ian’s face, chewing on his bottom lip for a long moment before the smoke rises. A slow, deep drag, “I got so much sand in my asscrack, it’s gonna take a week’s worth of showers to get it all out.”

“I’m not interested in your ass Mick,” his hand is still flat against his lower back, “I mean, I am, that’s not what I’m saying, I,” getting flustered under the stare of his bright blue eyes, “I, it’s you. I just want you. I want you to stay. And I don’t want to just fuck you and then watch you walk away. I want this to stick. I want to fall asleep with you and wake up to you. I want to kiss you with stinky morning breath and I want to make you breakfast. Tonight, I want to kiss you. I want to kiss you until my mouth is too fucking tired to kiss you any longer. I want to touch you, every single surface of you. I want to…”

“Suck my dick?”

A flush is creeping up his neck and cheeks but he can’t bear for this man to walk away from him. Not tonight, “whenever you want.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Alright,” hand tapping on his cheek again, “go get your guest room ready. And while you’re doin’ that, loosen up that throat of yours. You got a long night ahead of you tough guy.”

————

Mickey’s head is tipped back, cradled by Ian’s pillows and he’s laughing his ass off when Ian gets off the bed.

“What? So it went off like a fucking rocket in my boxers, want me to say it? You’re too fucking sexy and I can’t hold myself back around you?” 

“You never could last,” he’s still chuckling, his Adam’s Apple bobbing.

“Me?”

“Yeah,” brows darted up, lips pursed.

Ian shrugs, “well you were sexy as hell back then too.”

“Fuck you,” his fingers are busy, probably looking for a cigarette or a weapon, just a Mickey thing that Ian didn’t realize he missed until he noticed it again.

“Why? It’s true,” stepping into a clean pair of boxers. He wants nothing more than to curl into Mickey with nothing between them. But with bedroom doors open, that can’t happen. He’ll have to settle for boxers.

He flops down with a sigh on his belly, next to Mickey’s hip, his hand reaches out, tracing over the hem of his boxers, over his thigh, down to his kneecap and resting there, “thanks Mick,” sighing, dragging a pillow down to rest his head on.

“For what? Makin’ ya jizz in your drawers?”

“No. For the day. It was fun.”

Mickey’s hand lands in Ian’s hair. No smoking in the house, he doesn’t really drink anymore, he has no reason to jerk is cock, so grabbing a handful of hair will just have to work, “don’t gotta do that every time firecrotch.”

“Thank you? Why not? You agreed to spend the day with me when you didn’t have to. You made me smile, and laugh, and feel good. You and Nat are making things so much easier for my son. And I appreciate that.”

“Fuckever man,” he sighs, his fingers working near Ian’s temple, “I had fun too.”

His face leans forward unconsciously, pressing his lips against Mickey’s hip, right above the waistband of his underwear. Remaining silent, keeping his face close, there is not a single imperfection on this man’s body. It’s incredible. Every freckle and muscle and scar. Every line and indentation, every shadow and the tiny wrinkles that are starting to make themselves permanent on his forehead. Every hair follicle and even the dip and folds of his bellybutton. His scent, fuck, even after spending a day on the beach applying and reapplying sunscreen, being buried in sand and immersed in the lake. He still smells distinctly like Mickey.

“Jesus, man, get your fill or what?”

“Hmm?”

“Fuckin’ sniffin’ me. It’s weird.”

He laughs, “busted,” pulling his head back only to rest his chin on the pillow and watch Mickey’s face. From this angle, good lord, every angle. Guy belongs in a perfume ad or something. Those stupid cheesy ads that are all bare chests and perfectly structured faces. 

“So how, uh,” the hair fondling is making Ian start to think he can fall asleep with his eyes open, “how’d Becky die?”

“Car accident.”

“That sucks.”

“Yeah. It was quick, she most likely died on impact. So,” he shrugs, “there’s that.”

Falling silent for a long time, long enough that Ian wonders, “how’d it all happen with Svetlana anyway?”

He’s been around her a few times now. And as much as she and Mickey never should have been married, he can see the respect they have for one another. Ian kind of likes her, she’s straight forward and doesn’t seem to be someone who’ll take any shit. 

FUCK rising, fingers grinding into his closed lids for a long rub, “you’re gonna fuckin’ laugh.”

“What if I promise not to?”

“Then you’ll break a promise.”

“Okay, then what if I at least cover my mouth, or laugh into the pillow?”

When his fingers drop, he blinks rapidly at Ian for a long moment to clear the fog he created for himself, “well first off, she had red hair when I met her.”

“Okay?”

He gives a little tug on Ian’s hair, looking at him like he’s an idiot, “fuck, alright. So you left fuckin’ town. Mandy was startin’ to get all up in my face about it, sayin’ I chased you off by bein’ a fuckin’ closet case. I don’t know, man, if Terry found out, and Mandy always flappin’ her damn jaw. I was drunk out of my fuckin’ mind, Terry had hired a bunch of strippers to come over for Iggy’s birthday. Dad kept lookin’ at me, like all night, like maybe he overheard somethin’ and I panicked a little. Svet was like the closest thing to…” his fingers rise again to grind, “fuck. Whatever man, she had red hair and she was fuckin’ pale as fuck and taller than me. You happy now?”

His eyebrows are up and Ian can feel the tension rising in his body. He’s braced and ready for Ian to laugh or tease him or get all smug about it. Instead, he pulls himself to seated, reaches out to press the eyebrows down with his fingers, much to Mick’s chagrin, and he smiles at him, “I’m not going to laugh.”

FUCK swats Ian’s hand away from his face, arms crossing over his chest, “‘pparently I was too drunk to put the damn condom on right. Or maybe at all, I don’t even remember. She ended up pregnant, ‘course I did the paternity test as soon as I could, but she needed a green card anyway. So… fuckever. She wasn’t that bad. I guess. As wives go. She knew I was gay, she wasn’t expectin’ me to fuck her. Or really do anything other than help with Nat.”

Ian doesn’t overthink it, just dips in. Pressing against his lips when he’s not expecting it. Lingering there, just lips on lips. Until Mickey parts his. Giving Ian the permission to progress. 

And damn it all if he doesn’t add another sticky pair of boxers to the hamper before the night is over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I said way back in the beginning, I'm using Svet in a non-rape way. Mickey slept with women. That's not a question. That's a statement. I'm tired of picking apart/defending/interpreting canon's storylines that I clearly did not write. So I'm not going to. I put Mickey with Svet because yes it's easier to use the show's characters for side-stories. 
> 
> One of the reasons I was drawn to the show was how they illustrated that shitty things happen. They happen. They happen to all of us. Even in this light and easy work, Teddy still lost his mom. Mickey still lost his mom. It is, yet again, a heavy topic that I hope I am respecting to the utmost. 
> 
> I'd like to, once again, thank all of you who have supported me and my writing habit. You quiet the negativity even in those situations when the negativity feels it could easily drown me. So thank you, I appreciate you more than you know.


	8. Mirror Image

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh Mickey - I can put you in any situation I want and you still impress the hell out of me.

Mirror Image

 

Mickey’s eyes open as soon as the bedroom door is opening. It’s opening slowly and he knows where he is, he knows who’s breath that is on his neck and he knows without the voice coming out of the kid, that it’s a kid, blinking in the open doorway, wondering, “Dad?”

And it ain’t his kid. He elbows Ian, to which nothing happens. 

“Dad?”

Nothing. Stupid fucker, fuck. Mickey drags himself to seated on the edge of the bed, blinking and rubbing at sleep fogged eyes until the fog is his fog and he can just force his way through it. Focus landing on the kid, “what’s up Gallagher?”

“I just need Dad.”

But Mickey recognizes the slumped shoulders and the hands cupped in front of his groin like he’s hiding the entire wet spot of piss if he hides the source of it. 

Mickey shoves Ian, all he gets in return is a hand-swat and a grumble about it being really early.

“Fuck, he always sleep like that?”

The kid shrugs, “you could give him a wet-willy.”

“Yeah, I could. Or I could just help you out. You know, if you want to get out of the wet pajamas, you can clean up yourself in the bathroom while I clean up your bed.”

“But I…”

He’s certain the kid’s face is bright red, “I ain’t tellin’. Long as you don’t tell anyone I wet the bed ’til I was ten,” he shrugs. It’s only sort of a lie. But he ain’t about to tell a little kid that his sister wet the bed after their mom died and when their dad found out about it he’d paddle her butt with a wooden spoon. Dumb fucker, piece of shit was the whole reason she was wetting the damn bed in the first place, which of course at the time Mickey didn’t fuckin’ know why. But it wasn’t like hitting her for it would help. So she got in the damn habit of sleepin’ in Mickey’s bed and honestly he didn’t mind it that much. Knowin’ something was wrong with her but not knowin’ what, maybe he just blamed it on Mom dyin’. Either way, if it was havin’ nightmares or some shit makin’ her piss the bed, but it didn’t happen when she slept in his room, then fuckever. It was better than sneaking around in the middle of the night trying to clean up her sheets and mattress without waking Terry.

It was only later that he realized her nightmares were a real, living, breathing man with beer breath and dirty hands. Fuck, sometimes Mickey wishes he had killed the fucker before the crystal did.

The little bastard is still starin’ at him, not sure the fuck he’s waiting for. He doubts Ian legitimately gets mad at him when he has an accident. Maybe annoyed. Annoyed at bodily functions seems like kind of a Gallagher style thing. Or annoyed at being woken in the middle of the night. Well, five’ o’clock ain’t really the middle of the night. Close enough to the time Mickey gets up on a work day anyway. Then old Ms Bodnar comes to the house to get Nat ready for school during the school year when he’s already out the door. Or she hangs out until Svet comes to get her in the summer. Nat says she smells like old lady, but she’s pretty okay with that ‘cause her eggs over-easy are awesome. Not too runny, not too cooked. 

He sighs, he’ll just get up and start the process. Little ginger turd can stand in the doorway with piss pants as long as he wants and stare at his dad who don’t seem to notice when people watch him sleep, or talk in the same room, or open the door, or leave the bed. Or fuckin’ anything, maybe a wet-willy is the way to go. But he’s way less annoying when he’s sleeping, so he lets him.

He tousles Teddy’s hair on the way by, grabbing a pair of Gallagher’s sweatpants out of the laundry basket with everything folded all nice and neat, just sitting there on top of the dresser. Like they’ll put themselves away. 

He’s got the bedding rolled off and hauled down the stairs to the laundry room, blotted out the moisture with a towel by the time the kid comes back. He’s standing all sheepish in the doorway watching, “ain’t a big deal kid.”

“I know,” but Mickey was right earlier. Kid’s ears are bright red while he watches the floor between them.

“You, uh, miss your mom, huh?”

A slow, barely-there nod.

“I was about your age when my mom died. I still miss her. But the cool thing about your dad is, he’s an okay guy. You know? Like he ain’t gonna yell at you for pissin’ the bed. Fuckin’ accidents happen, man.”

“He sometimes yells.”

“Yeah? I bet your mom sometimes yelled to, huh? It just wasn’t scary when she did it, ‘cause she was your mom. He ever yell at you for havin’ an accident before?”

“No,” watching his toes curling against the carpet while he talks.

“Then I doubt he’d yell now. He’d probably grumble and grump and stumble around like a zombie or some shit, but I don’t think he’d get mad.”

“Sometimes he does.”

“Sometimes we all do. Just different when it’s someone closer to your size and some jolly ginger giant, huh?”

His face screws up for a minute and then he half sighs out a laugh.

“Alright. Gonna need vinegar and water in a spray bottle and some baking soda. Know where I could find that shit ‘round here?”

————

Little shit’s got flour in his ginger brows and a grin on his face when he starts the hand mixer and it fluffs out into the air in front of him. Laughing like it’s not six in the damn morning on a Sunday and they’re both wide awake makin’ pancakes from scratch. 

Fuckever, smell of coffee is starting to waft through the kitchen and that’ll do it. A child’s laugh, some caffeine, and some chow. Mickey’ll be fine. 

“Are you and Dad boyfriends?” 

Damn. Shoveling another mouthful in to give himself a moment. Fucker, that asshole should have been the one to tell his own damn kid. Fuck. Now Mickey’s going to get the whole ‘you slept on Mommy’s side of the bed’ or some shit about two boys being in bed together.

“Dad’s gay. Are you gay?”

Or that.

“Dad said he loved Mom. She was his wife and his friend and they were happy that way. But now she’s gone and he wants us to be able to be a family even without Mom. And he said sometimes families change, and no two families look alike.”

“He’s right about that,” swallowing a drink of coffee to chase down the syrupy pancakes that he’s wondering if he should start making super hero logos with the rest of the batter. 

“So are you going to be my family?”

“I already am kid,” he sighs, reaching out to tousle Teddy’s hair again. And fuck, he knows he ain’t Ian’s biological kid, but the damn look on his face is as fuckin’ close as a mirror image can get, “eat your breakfast before it gets cold and the syrup gets all gelatinous and shit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The feedback from a couple of you has inspired a few of my favorite ever chapters within these works. The kudos are the silent support that I need when I'm doubting myself. 
> 
> Thank you for investing your time into my story, as always I am happy to have the company!


	9. Any Other Way

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, Ian did say he wanted to take them camping...

Any Other Way

 

“Jesus fucking Christ Gallagher, this is the dumbest fuckin’ shit I’ve done in my whole fuckin’ life. And I’ve done a lot of dumb fuckin’ shit,” his hands are on his hips as he scans over the campsite. 

It’s rustic and its on a river and it’s perfect. The sun is shining and playing patterns with the shade on Teddy’s hair and Natalia’s pale shoulders where they’re already squatted down on the river bank looking for frogs. 

“Just relax,” squeezing his strong shoulders, leaning to kiss the back of his head, “play with the kids. I’ll set up camp. We’ll cook dinner over a fire, we’ll roast marshmallows, we’ll sleep in the fresh air blowing through the tent, we’ll get up tomorrow and try fishing. We’ll fail miserably at fishing so we’ll go for a hike and see what the lake looks like. We’ll swim and sit on the shore until we dry. Hike back to the campsite in time for dinner and relax around the fire. Sunday morning we’ll pick ticks out of each other’s hair and slather some calamine on all the mosquito bites, we’ll pack up and we’ll head back to the city. That is,” sliding his hands down Mickey’s back, “unless you’re scared of bears.”

“Fuck you. Ain’t afraid of bears.”

“K,” pressing lips against his neck, “then go play with the kids,” swatting his ass before he backs away, “I’ve got this.”

————

Fuck, he’s glad the kids were out of hearing distance while he was setting the tent up. An Army issued bivy and a four person tent are totally different monsters. Fucking stupid ass poles and stakes. Fuck. He cursed and kicked at the dirt until Mickey came over and pounded the stakes in the ground with a smirk on his face and put the damn tent together like it was no more than pulling the zipper on a damn backpack or something. 

Then the fire. Ian thought he could really impress the kids by using flint, and maybe it would have worked if it hadn’t rained last night. Mickey just fuckin’ smirked at him and lit it with his lighter right after he lit his smoke. Asshole.

But now the animals are covered in marshmallows and chocolate, their smiles are brighter than the flames and he’s wondering how he’ll convince them to wash their faces in the cold water of the river before they go to bed. 

He’s also wondering if he can get them to go to bed and convince Mickey to fuck down by the river once they’re passed out. Wouldn’t be that much different than fucking in the dugout like they used to. Or in the cold-ass refrigerator of the Kash-N-Grab. 

Watching the fire reflecting in his gorgeous eyes is making this whole taking-it-slow thing impossible. If it wasn’t already impossible. Watching the fire in his eyes as he watches Ian with a gentle openness on his face. Fuck. He feels himself smiling while Nat pulls on Mickey’s hand and starts begging him to sing that song. 

“The one about Alice’s restaurant, Daddy!”

“I don’t have a guitar kiddo,” he tweaks her nose and tries shrugging her off.

“Good thing I do!” she grins, that gap in her front teeth only makes her more adorable. 

It was just another thing Mickey learned for Nat, he always used to screw around with his electric guitar though it was more for the sake of noise, but it just wasn’t hard for him to pick up an acoustic guitar, watch a few instructional YouTube videos and figure it out. He pretends he has a terrible singing voice and he hates using it in front of anyone other than the kids, but it’s just another thing he’ll do if the kids ask him to. And truthfully, Ian fucking loves it. No, he’s not someone who could stand on a stage and belt out a fucking ballad but he has the perfect campfire voice. He knows Mickey would never admit it, Ian can tell he enjoys the hell out of playing for the kids. 

And he knows Teddy loves hearing it. He loves being around music again after growing up around his mother always singing, and it was out of his life for far too long before Mickey filled the void.

————

“Daddy?” she’s nearly asleep leaned against his side, “will you lay down with us until we fall asleep?”

“‘Course I will,” his head turns to plant a kiss on the top of hers. 

Well there goes the idea of bringing a blanket down to the river’s edge and making passionate love under the glow of the full moon. Smiling to himself at just the image, like he’d ever convince Mickey to lay down stark naked in nature and let Ian worship his every inch.

“Fuck you smilin’ about firecrotch?”

“Nothin’,” but that doesn’t mean he’ll stop any time soon.

————

It is a good thing the sleeping bags were between them last night. He woke up plastered to Mickey’s back with a raging damn hard-on that he had to picture naked women to get rid of as the kids were waking up and giggling about catching fish with their bare hands and who would wimp out first when it was time to filet them. 

Ian’s money is on Teddy to wimp out of gutting a fish before Nat does. But he won’t vocalize that one. And they won’t find out anyway since they’re both too busy splashing around in the river and throwing fistfuls of pebbles to watch the ripples. 

————

“Jump again!” 

Her request fulfilled without hesitation. Fuck, he loves how devoted Mickey is to making his daughter smile. And it hasn’t slipped his attention in the months they’ve been together again that he’s willing to do the same for Teddy. When Ian was fifteen and fucking Mickey Milkovich in the dugout on a hot-as-balls summer night, no one ever could have told him this would be the place he’d be a decade later. Watching Mickey entertain their two children on a hot-as-balls summer day in a lake outside the city after sleeping in a tent. 

His dreams of West Point and his hope for Mickey to take classes at the community college, they’re such a distant memory it’s almost like a different life. 

He smiles when Mickey catches his eye from out in the water. Sloshing his way over towards him, the magnetic pull of his lips is undeniable. He won’t drowned in the lake, but he’ll gladly drowned in Mickey’s presence. 

————

Ian watches Mickey’s face lit in the glow of the lighter as he sparks it up. Taking a slow drag, leaning back on his elbow in the horrendously beautiful glow of the moon. The sound of the river rushing past them, the crackling of the fire at their campsite behind them. The kids sound asleep in the tent.

Watching the smoke swirl away from his lips while he hands the cigarette over. Ian bypasses the smoke for his lips. Crashing into him with enough force that he lays back on the blanket with a grunt. His hand slides up the back of Ian’s neck, fingers pressing into the base of his skull to hold him near. It will never get old kissing this man. 

He stops when Mickey gives him a playful shove. Leaning back just far enough to linger over him and watch his face, “I love you,” reminding him.

“Fuckever firecrotch, we still ain’t fuckin’ here.”

“No? How about I suck your dick then?”

He watches Ian for a long moment, slowly working his lower lip between his teeth. Wondering if he should just give in, get fucked beside a river in the cooling air of an August night. Tapping Ian’s cheek with a sigh, “well it ain’t gonna suck itself.”

————

“Goddamn Mick,” sliding his fingers through his jet black hair as his head bobs up and down on Ian’s cock. Yes, fuck, he missed this. He missed any contact, all of the contact. It never mattered what form it came in. He’s pretty sure the first time Mickey ever gave a blow job was that time they managed to actually have some alone time at the Gallagher house. Not that Mickey would ever admit it was his first time doing anything, ever. He was adorably awkward and unwilling to make any kind of eye contact for pretty much the rest of the day.  
His skills have improved since then. And his lack of caring, his comfort in the fact that he’s sucking a dick. It shows, and when his eyes rise through the darkness and meet Ian’s, it’s over. 

“Quick draw, huh?”

He flops his head back in the grass with a heavy sigh, waiting for Mickey to lay down next to him, pleasantly surprised when he lays down half on top of him instead. His hands find Mickey’s shoulder blades immediately, pressing him nice and close when his head meets Ian’s chest. 

“Did you ever think,” sighing gently, “back in the day,” his fingers sliding under Ian’s t-shirt and lingering over his thudding heart, “this is where we’d be?”

“Fuck no,” tilting to kiss the top of his head, and take a long inhale of his scent while he’s there, “but honestly, I can’t imagine it any other way."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for the support and love!


	10. Good Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Knocking on Mickey's door when there are no kids around... We know what that means!

Good Game

 

Nerves are rolling in his stomach as he takes the steps up to the porch. The day is fading into night and the summer is fading into bittersweet end of the hot weather, sliding into Fall with every passing moment. 

“Fuck,” sighing to himself as he watches his hand rise to knock on the dark brown wooden door with Nat’s hand-painted on wood sign, ‘Welcome to Our Home’. The W is the Wonder Woman logo. He smiles every single time he walks up to this door. And pulls it open without hesitation. But this, fuck, this is…

“Fuck you knockin’ for Gallagher?” his brows are up in annoyance but it recedes quickly when he takes a look at Ian’s face.

Seriousness setting in, eyes locked on and fuck, all the self-control is out the window. Grabbing for his face and diving into his lips. He doesn’t give him a chance to say anything else, doesn’t take the chance to explain it. He’s here and he wants Mickey. He can’t handle it any fucking longer. He dropped Teddy with Fiona for the night, he knows Nat is with Svetlana. And he can’t fucking wait any fucking longer. 

Mickey starts taking the steps backwards into the house, feeling the intensity and reciprocating it. His hands fisted into Ian’s shirt while he drags him closer. 

He wants to spin him, he wants to yank off his pants and fuck him hard and dirty in the middle of the living room. He wants to bend him over and press in, make him gasp hard and slam his fist into the couch or the bed or the grass or whatever he could punch that wouldn’t split his knuckles.

But he doesn’t. Because he doesn’t have to. Not now. Not anymore. 

He can take his time, knowing that no one will come charging in the door ready to out them or beat them or fucking shoot Mickey in the leg. Whatever it was that they were so afraid of back in the day. 

Now, now he isn’t afraid to kiss me. 

He pulls back only when he feels Mickey’s breath catch in his throat. One hand sliding down the back of his head to rest on his neck, the other pressing the small of his back, keeping him close.

His face is tilted up, eyes soft, lips; fuck, those lips. Gentle smile starting to rise as his gaze lingers on Ian’s. There are about a million things he wants to say and million more he should say, but every single coherent thought disappears from his head as Mickey taps his cheek and half-cocks his head towards the bedroom with a smirk. 

————

The sun is starting to paint the sky in shades of morning by the time their sweaty bodies finally give out. 

“Holy fuck Mick,” breathy and exhausted. 

Mickey swats his ass playfully, “good game Gallagher.”

“Good game,” he snorts, “fuck, I think I just saw the gates of Heaven and all you’ve got is ‘good game’?” slipping his hand over the line of Mickey’s perfect jaw.

He shrugs, leaning out to push the window open. Sitting with his back against the headboard to light a smoke, “want me to get down on my knees and worship your dick, or what?”

“No,” lips to chest. What he wants is an ‘I love you’, what he wants is this moment to never fucking end, what he wants is to beg Mickey to move in with him, marry him, be with him for the rest of his fucking life, “are we, um, together?”

He takes a slow drag, looking around the room like he’s looking for something, “sure fuckin’ looks that way, don’t it?”

“Fuck you.”

“I mean, if you’re ready…” his eyebrow is up in a wicked arch.

“You act like I’m fifteen still.”

“So do you,” countering as his hand grazes Ian’s thigh.

————

He’s absolutely fucking spent this time. No way in hell he’ll get his dick hard again for at least… feeling Mickey’s ribs expanding under his head as his hands tuck under his lower back, like a fifteen minute nap or so. FUCK is lazily fingering through Ian’s hair and it’s so incredibly relaxing, the sound of his heart and the feel of his hands. The morning air coming in the open window, carrying with it the sound of the city. 

Reality getting foggy as sleep starts taking hold, barely hearing his voice over the invading state, “‘course we’re together dumbass,” his lips against the top of Ian’s head, “I love you.”

————

He has no idea how long he slept. But when he wakes he’s sore in places he forgot could even get sore. And the sound of laughter is filtering through the open window from the side yard. The sound of laughter that he’ll always recognize and he’ll always take solace in. Three distinct laughs, three immediately uplifting sounds that will always put a smile on his face. Three sounds that he wants to spend the rest of his fucking life listening to. He plans on doing just that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had issues writing the descriptive parts of smut for this one, I don't know if it's the influence of the kids, or what. But, oh well, they're back together officially and that's all that matters!


	11. The Most Important Days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Little time jump.

The Most Important Days

 

If anyone ever asked Mickey Milkovich what the most important days of his life were, he’d be quick to answer. Easy. The day his daughter was born. The day he kissed Ian Gallagher the first time. The day he officially became a guardian over Teddy Gallagher. And today. Today, the day they walk into the courthouse with their children and their marriage license. 

Today, the day they officially declare their lifelong love for one another. The day they make it a forever thing. The day they trade rings and kisses to seal the deal. The day they officially commit to one another. Repeating their vows, and knowing there’s no way in fuck they’ll ever stray. This is it. This has always been it. 

And in fifty years when they’re all wrinkly and grey and their balls are saggy and they can’t hear each other’s voices anymore, it’ll still be it. Ian will still be it. He is as certain of that as he is of the fact that love is all it takes to reform a piece of Southside trash into a legitimate hard working father and loving husband.

He’s certain of all that when they leave the place, Ian’s hand in his right, Nat’s in his left; and he’s certain that when they get to the ice cream shop he’s ordering extra fuckin’ Snickers pieces on his sundae. And he better get extra fuckin’ pieces for real, not that lame ass bullshit they pulled last time. He sure in the fuck don’t feel like goin’ home on his wedding night with busted knuckles. 

Like that dopey ginger fuck can read his mind, their entwined hands are being lifted, his damn warm lips pressing a kiss on each finger. F to U to C to K. FUCK. Ain’t that the truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I might have skimmed the surface a bit at the end, but I get a little on the bored side when things start getting fluffy(?). And fluff seems so uninspired from me.
> 
> I have a chapter for this that is from Teddy's perspective a few years later. I feel like I could probably do a few from the kids' perspectives. Could be interesting? I'll at least refine that one and get it posted hopefully this week and then decide from there.
> 
> Thanks for coming along this journey with me! I appreciate the company :)


	12. Doors Open

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Teddy
> 
> I'd put him somewhere around thirteen for this chapter.

Doors Open

 

He didn’t really know where else to go. Everywhere he goes, she’ll find him anyway so there’s no sense in trying to hide anymore. He sits on the cold damp swing in the cold damp Autumn and waits. Trying to sort it all out in his head. Wondering how this lie could have been carried on for so many years. Wondering how the one person he was supposed to trust the most in this world could have lied to him for his entire life. Lied to him about who he is. Where he came from. Everything.

He stormed out of the house with anger flaring up his spine and his fists clenched. He knew someone would be behind him soon enough. Whether it was a dad or his sister, it would be someone. She’s the least bad of the options. 

She sits on the swing beside him with a grunt. Kicking the grass underneath with her boots until the green is scuffed away and replaced by the dirt underneath. He listens to her breathe and waits for her to say something. Chew him out for being angry. For storming out of the house instead of facing up to his issues. But it’s not her who just found out her identity has been a lie. 

She doesn’t understand. She never will. She’s clearly the product of her parents. It’s in her appearance and her attitude. It’s in her level of intelligence and her eagerness for learning survival skills. And not survival in the way her parents survived, that’s different, that was bred into them by living shitty lives that Teddy only hears snippets of through conversations between his dads that he’s not supposed to overhear. But he does.

And today, when Dad sat him down at the kitchen table and told him, admitted, fucking told him, “I have to talk to you about something. I’ve been fighting with myself over when to tell you, but it’s something you should know. So,” his hand had come down then, landed on Teddy’s knee and given him a reassuring squeeze while his eyes watered, “I’m not your biological father.”

That was all he heard. All he cared to hear. Even though Dad kept talking. He wasn’t hearing him anymore. And when he stormed out, that was the end of it. He didn’t want to go back. Maybe he’d go hide at Sam’s house for the weekend or something. But his damn dark-haired blue-eyed shadow would rat him out. 

“Leave me alone Nat,” he finally grumbles at her when she bends to examine a rock she’s just unearthed.

“Public place asshole. I’ll swing all fuckin’ night if I want.”

“Fine,” he slides off the rubber seat, “do that then.”

“Where you goin’?”

He responds with his middle finger and doesn’t stop moving. He isn’t sure where he’s going honestly. He’ll know when he gets there.  
And when he gets there, it’s the ball field. It’s the ball field where the four of them have spent so many afternoons cheering and laughing and talking trash to one another. Racing and chasing around bases and pretending that any of them can catch one of Tat’s hits without it stinging their hand.

He sits down in the dugout. He watches the sparks of dew on the green grass. And he lets himself remember his mother. What would she want now? How would she want him to respond? She was in on it, she put Ian’s name on his birth certificate. Knowing, knowing all along that he was gay and he’d never love her in that way even with a signed marriage certificate and the rings and the shared house and shared bedroom and the whole deal being sealed with a kiss. But she knew. She knew it anyway. And she trusted him. She trusted him enough that she put his name on Teddy’s birth certificate. She gave him Ian’s last name. She lived with him as his wife until she died.  
Fuck. He rests his face in his hands for a moment. He’s surprised when he feels the dampness of tears on his palms. 

He’s not surprised when he hears someone climbing the fence. He’s not surprised when he feels her body heat next to him. He’s not surprised when her skinny arm lands on his shoulder and she sighs, “could be worse. You could have four parents always keepin’ fuckin’ tabs on you.”

“Yeah, well at least two of your parents donated to your gene pool.”

“Fuck difference does it make?”

“It means I know nothing of myself.”

“Oh fuck that. You really think bein’ raised by some abusive piece of shit would have been better? You wanna go track him down, huh? Stand on his doorstep and tell him you’re the son he never wanted?”

“Never wanted,” he repeats.

“Didn’t know about,” she shrugs, “whatever difference it makes. Point is, Ian wanted you enough to lie. Sometimes lies ain’t a bad thing when the motivation is a good thing.”

“How do you even know my real dad was a piece of shit?”

“Uh, why wouldn’t he be? If Ian married your mom once she was already pregnant with you, it was most likely to protect her or you or both. You know Ian. That’s the kind of guy he is. It’s not like he was just hangin’ around the fuckin’ delivery room, pointin’ at fatherless babies and thinkin’ ‘oh that’s the one’ when he saw you.”

“That doesn’t even make sense. The delivery room is a separate room for each family. It’s not like all the babies are just lined up…”

“Whatever. Either way, he wasn’t just pointin’ at you in a cradle and thinkin’ ‘I’ll pass that one off as my own’,” her arm drops from around his shoulders and she nudges him with her elbow, “‘least you got two dads who voluntarily took ya. Think that might mean they love you more than if they were just saddled with you one day without choosin’ it first.”

“That makes no sense.”

“Sure it does,” her nose is twitching like she’s about to sneeze and when her hand rises to slide along it, it’s covered in dirt, “they chose you Ted. That’s pretty special.”

He’s never going to admit it, and he’s definitely not going to say it to her, but she’s right. That doesn’t change the fact that she’s annoying as hell, but that’s how sisters are supposed to be. 

Her shoulder dips and crashes into his with a smirk, “‘least they got a choice. I didn’t, I just got stuck with you.”

He shoves her back and it’s not long before they’re racing and she’s talking shit on the way around the bases. So much shit, the girl is a never ending string of Southside curse-words, Russian threats, and Ukrainian babble mixed in. He’s fairly certain all the Ukrainian phrases she knows are terms of endearment but when she adds her own little flare to it, it’s no longer meant for endearment.

“Jesus Nat, you use that mouth to kiss your grandma?”

“Yeah, Ms Bodnar chose me. She don’t care if I got a dirty mouth to go with my dirty hands.”

“Doesn’t care,” he grins when they come to a halt by home plate.

Her big blue eyes roll, “fuck difference does it make?”

“Grammar. Between your mom, your dad, and Ms Bodnar, you sound like a Ukrainian Russian piece of white trash. And it’s fucking weird.”

“I ain’t tryin’ to be president Ted,” she shoves him, both hands palm down on his arm, “you’re in my way. You bring a bat?”

“Look like I brought a bat?”

“Why you come here then?”

He shrugs, “to run bases and listen to my little sister talking shit.”

She grins, her eyebrows are quirked up her forehead as she cocks her head towards first base, “start fuckin’ runnin’ then.”

————

They’re sweaty and breathless by the time a stocky dark haired figure appears on the other side of the fence, “you rat me out?” Ted wonders towards his sister.

She grunts at him, “Southsiders don’t snitch.”

FUCK U-UP bent to grasp the wrought iron, but he doesn’t climb over, “you, uh, get it out of your system kid?”

He stares at Mickey’s hands, unable to meet his eyes just yet. A shrug the only response he’s capable of. 

“I ain’t gonna get mad. Neither is your dad. You have every right to be mad.”

“He lied.”

“Yeah.”

“That bothers me. That’s one thing you guys are always harping on me about, never lie. And he’s been lying to me for my entire life.”

“Yeah.”

“And now it’s like I have no idea who I am,” his lip trembles and he bites down hard on it, turning his face so neither of them can see it. Arms crossing at his chest.

“Guess you don’t have to.”

“What?” head snapping towards Tat.

When his eyes meet his through the fencing, he feels the calm reassurance he’s always felt under his gaze, “‘Cause I do. And she does,” motioning towards Nat, “and so does your dad.”

He can feel his eyes start to fill, crossing his arms tighter by instinct, focus dropping to the ground between them.

“So some other dude donated to your gene pool, that make a difference for your identity? My dad was a piece of shit, sure, if I’d grown up with a dad that was actually interested in my well being, I’d be a different person. Maybe better, maybe not. But I wouldn’t have spent half my life tryin’ to find some self-worth. ‘Least you got that, huh? Got a dad that gives a shit about your feelings and shit.”

Watching Nat’s toe scuffing across the dirt at their feet, “he know anything about my real dad?”

“Sure. He knows his name. He knows he’d track him down for you if you want him. He ain’t gonna stop you from gettin’ to know him if you find him. He knows what he looked like.”

“So my real dad was…”

“Fuck off with that real dad shit,” Nat kicks at his boot, “Ian’s your real dad. Don’t make a difference who the donor was.”

“Language, you little shit,” Tat warns her with his eyebrows up.

“Whatever Dad,” her eyes roll and then lock on to Teddy’s face, “Ian’s your real dad. So is that guy,” motioning towards her dad, “for whatever that’s worth,” she smirks, “only reason you’ve got for tracking down your donor is if you ever need a new organ. Or some shit, got a genetic blood disorder or something? Nope, didn’t think so.”

Sometimes being alone with the two of them is like being in the middle of an eyebrow war, “It’s not really your decision to make shorty.”

“Who you callin’ short?”

“Gotta do it while I can. You’ll be taller than me by the time you’re done growing.”

She puffs out her chest and tells him, “it’ll be long before I’m done growing.”

A smile rises, a proud smile that he wears when he looks at her for too long. If he could fit his hand through the fence, he’d be tugging her braid and running his hand over her head. 

A flash of jealousy burns through Ted’s core, knowing he’s never had that, he’ll never have that. Looking into nearly a mirror image, while it looks back at you twinkled with pride and unconditional love. 

It stings behind his eyes, taking a deep breath and watching Tat’s focus shift to his face. His expression doesn’t change. It doesn’t change at all. Gaze lingering for a long moment before wondering, “should we go get some balls and a bat, gut as many balls as we can? Or is it more of a shooting guns kind of frustration? Ice cream?” his lips purse for a minute, running out of options, “not gonna let you guys drink or smoke yet, so…”

“Guess I’ll,” his voice shakes a little, “talk to Dad.”

That pride-filled twinkle is so bright, Ted nearly has to look away, “guess that’s a good idea goldfish.”

————

“No,” he sighs, running his hands through his hair when he sits on the edge of Teddy’s bed, “I didn’t really know him. He was a guy your mom met in college. I only ever spoke to him a handful of times. I know his name, if you want to try…”

“No. I don’t.”

A visible relief rolls through his body, “okay. If you change your mind.”

“I know.”

“Okay,” he sits watching for awhile in silence. He has kind of a sad smile on, the kind he wears when talks about Mom. Ted can tell he’s trying to decide if it’s okay to reach out and touch him or not. His hand keeps lifting just a little and then dropping again, “I’m sorry.”

“I know,” there’s still too much clouding his chest to be able to accept that.

“Okay.”

He wants him to leave now. He wants to keep his guard up for as long as possible. He wants Dad to know how hurt he is by being lied to. Even though he understands it. Dad said he didn’t want to drag the guy through the mud, he wasn’t about to tell him anything personal he knew about him, in case Teddy did want to meet him at some point. Some crap about needing to be able to form his own opinion without the judgement of others. But what Nat speculated on, is probably right. He was probably a piece of shit. Mom and Dad probably did what they did to protect Ted. 

“Okay,” sighing again, this time when his hand rises it lands on Teddy’s shoulder, giving a tight reassuring squeeze and a smile, “I love you.”

“I love you too,” he mumbles it, just so Dad knows that he’s not out of the dog house on this one just yet.

He stops at the door anyway and taps the doorframe, “doors open, so…”

“I know.”

“Okay,” he pulls the door shut on his way out. Knowing Teddy needs some quiet, some privacy, to sort this out, but reminding him that yeah, the door does open and it’s ready whenever he is. 

His eyes catch on the shelves by the light switch. Sports trophies, academic achievements, photos. The photo that holds his attention is one that Svetlana took at a ball game last year. It was a close game, they ended up losing even after Nat’s hit sent Teddy through two bases. The photo was taken as Teddy was sliding into home plate, Dad is in the background, the look on his face is like someone told him he won the lottery. Even though it was just a run that didn’t win a game, a game in an intramural league in the Southside of Chicago that exists solely to keep hood kids out of trouble in the summer. Dad coaches it and the hospital sponsors it. 

Maybe he was wrong earlier. He knows that whole thing about babies who imitate the expressions of the people they spend the most time with. That whole part of not looking like him, sure, the red hair came from Mom. The hazel eyes, hers too. But what is a face without expression? And if the expressions were learned by watching Ian, then they’re his expressions. 

Teddy opens the top drawer of his dresser, the one most people use for socks and underwear. He uses it for photo albums. The plethora of photo albums that Dad and Aunt Debbie put together of his childhood. It has to be every photo ever taken of his first six years. Or pretty damn close. And they aren’t just with Mom. There’s a half ton of them with Dad too. 

Starting at the very start. It’s Ian sitting in the rocking chair at the hospital with a tiny bundled baby in his arms, his face is tilted towards Teddy but from the profile it’s easy to see his smile is gentle. There’s one of him laying on the living room floor on his belly, he’s making a silly face as he leans over Teddy who is young enough to be nothing more than a blob of human that’s reaching out to grab Dad’s nose. There’s infant swim classes and Teddy looks pissed and red-faced crying. There’s holding onto Dad’s pant leg to pull himself to standing. There’s sitting on Dad’s chest while he lays on his back on the floor, blowing raspberries against the soles of his feet. There’s food time and bath time and potty training. There’s the first day of preschool and kindergarten. 

There’s Mom’s ceremony. The photo is taken from the back of the room. Must have been Aunt Fiona or someone who snapped it. There’s Dad sitting in the empty room after it’s all over, with Teddy curled in his lap sound asleep. He’s sitting on an uncomfortable folding chair and he looks somehow defeated and strong at the same time. The photos of Mom beside the urn containing her ashes at the alter in front of them. His face is tilted as though he’s staring right at the photo of their wedding day. Sure, it might have been a sham, but it never felt that way, did it? In the next photo, he’s got his face in his hands and he’s crumpled forward to rest against Teddy’s head. This is the album that Dad wasn’t sure he wanted to give to him, he told him he had it for a long time, he made it when he made all the others, but he waited until the fifth anniversary of her death. It’s mostly the ceremony and the aftermath of it. Teddy supposes it’s as beautiful as a death ceremony could be. The last photo in it is from the one year anniversary of her death. It’s only Teddy in the shot. He’s leaning forward to kiss her headstone. Resting on his shoulder, is Dad’s hand, but he took the photo, so that’s all that shows.   
His chin trembles, wiping his hand across his face he sets the photo album on the bed and leaves the room. He knows exactly where he’s headed and he doesn’t have far to go. It’s never been far to go. 

Wrapping his strong arms around him immediately and holding him so close it hurts. It hurts in the exact tight, suffocating way that a hug from a father should hurt. Like he can crush the sadness right out of you. Or he can hold your body parts together as your insides are falling apart, he can brace you and make sure you don’t become nothing more than a puddle on the floor. He can keep you together until you’re ready to do it on your own. On your own, but never alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Google told me that Tat is a Ukrainian term for Dad, so we'll use it. 
> 
> I had this mostly put together before I posted last, but sat on it and overanalyzed it and... fuck it. It's posted. It feels like a subject I could dedicate like ten chapters to in reality, but we'll just deal with the cliff's notes. I'm planning on having Nat close this one out officially but haven't put the chapter together yet. 
> 
> Thanks again for reading!


	13. Girls Will Be Girls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our little mini-Mickey all grown up :)

Girls Will Be Girls

 

Natalia stands in the open doorway of her childhood bedroom. Bed made, sheets tucked tight. Daddy calls ‘em prison corners. Ian calls ‘em military corners. The quilt handmade by Ms Bodnar laid across the top, the Wonder Woman pillow displayed prominently at the head of the bed. Dresser painted red with blue and white knobs. On top are some framed photos throughout the years.

Camping trips, ball games, parties at Aunt Fiona’s place. Prom, she snorts to herself at the memory. Teddy made her go. Well, maybe it was a pity date. She had no desire to participate in any of that shit. But when she heard that the bitch he asked told him she wouldn’t go with him because she had never disliked a smile as much as she disliked Ted’s, well Nat’s plans changed. She begged his annoying ginger ass to go, she had grand plans to give that dumb bitch a new smile to dislike more: the one she looked at when she obsessed over her own image in the mirror. But when her ugly whitened and straightened and made-up smile was announced prom queen, Nat changed her mind. No sense in losing her full ride to the Air Force Academy by pounding the smirk off some slut on prom night. Fuckever, she probably saved Ted from chlamydia anyway. Petty little bitches like that never learn anyway, no sense in bloodying her knuckles over it. Turned out to be kind of a fun night, getting stoned under the L with her brother while all their classmates were drinking and having meaningless sex with each other. It wasn’t half bad. 

Teddy’s genius self got a scholarship to Northwestern for the Fall. He’ll be packing up and hittin’ the road all the way to higher education in a few more weeks. He’ll probably be a fuckin’ brain surgeon or some shit. Fuck him.

The photo that is missing from her dresser top, the one that’s been there since she was ten, the one she’s always loved the most, is in her bag now. Her only personal item that’s coming with her to the Academy. The Gallagher side of the family wasn’t about to let Ian get married in secret, or at least do it without a party for the entire damn neighborhood to announce it after the fact. So they had a giant ass party. Right smack in the middle of the summer, pool was set up, sprinklers were going, water balloons being smashed on people’s heads. The fun was in the chaos. The photo was taken durning a game of chicken. Nat is on Ian’s shoulders, Ted is on Daddy’s shoulders. The two of them are battling it out, and the dads are just smiling at each other. Just smiling, so simply, but so full of happiness, having everything they love right there in a dome of their own making. A dome of safety, a place to enjoy and love and never apologize for who any of them are. Their own dome of acceptance. 

Nat doesn’t remember a whole lot of her life before Ian and Teddy. What does anyone remember of life before eight years old? Just bits and pieces, but she does remember realizing the moment that Ian made Daddy happy. Happy in a different way than anyone else ever has. She remembers it clearly. Waking up at the Gallagher house, after having spent a day at the beach and falling asleep in the car. She woke up, knowing but not knowing where she was. Following the sound of laughter to the kitchen where Daddy and Ted were making pancakes. Daddy was putting the finishing touches on the Wonder Woman logo. He smiled at her, his usual proud smile, tweaked her nose and patted her fuzzy-from-swimming-and-sleeping-on braids, mumbled something about fixing those later. She’ll never forget how it felt to have him braid her hair her entire childhood, all the tugging and threatening about ‘sit still or I’ll shave your head’, until she finally realized it was much quicker if she did just sit the fuck still like he asked her to in the first place. That day she was sitting at the table, eating when Ian came in the kitchen. He thought no one was watching when he leaned in and kissed Daddy’s head. And Daddy thought no one was watching when he turned and smiled, a smile Nat had never seen before, and he kissed Ian’s lips. She doesn’t remember a moment of unhappiness since. 

Of course, she’s put them both though the wringer throughout the years. What kid doesn’t do that to their parents? Challenging their authority, pushing the limits. She’s made them both mad, disappointed, fuckin’ angry as all fuck - or maybe that was just Daddy who said that. But now, she knows she’s mostly just made them proud. 

A big, warm, reassuring hand squeezes down on her shoulder. Rising an immediate bubble of emotions she’s been trying to keep at bay. Going into a new chapter in life is fuckin’ terrifying. Doing it alone and far from home. No Daddy, no Mom, no Ian, no Teddy to rely on.

Her chin trembles and that’s all it takes before Ian is pressing her tight against his side and leaning his face into her hair, “you’ll be great.”

Fuck, now the tears are a damn waterfall down her cheeks and her hands are rising to hide in as she leans into his chest. Her ear against his calmly beating heart. The first time she ever sought out his affection was when she fell out of the tree in the backyard. Which wasn’t a first, but it was the worst time. She climbed higher than she ever had. And there was a reason old Ms Bodnar was always telling her to keep her little feet on the ground when she reaches for the sky, but she had to learn it herself. The hard way. She remembers hitting the ground and feeling like her breath would never reenter her body. Gasping for air as she watched a lone cloud stretching it’s fingers across a pale blue sky. Everything suddenly buzzed back to life when the air did enter her body, and everything buzzed with pain. It felt like it took her five years to get her feet under her. The whole world seemed dull when she blinked and it felt like the house was fifty miles away. A wave of nausea stopped her at the bottom of the stairs and by the time she was inside the house she could feel fluid leaking down her face from every possible organ that could be leaking. Blinking and blinking as the kitchen spun around her, the first thing that came into focus was the fact that Daddy was still at work. The second thing that came into focus was Ian’s furled orange brows as he appeared in front of her face like a strange apparition. That was not the moment she sought his affection, it was later, in the emergency room with his big old hand in hers when the doctor was explaining the cast she’d be wearing on her arm for the next six weeks or more, she kept thinking Daddy would be disappointed in her for not listening to the warnings about climbing the tree. He kept telling her, if you climb it, be smart about it, don’t put your full weight on a branch without testing it out first, don’t climb it alone. He wasn’t going to stop her from trying something, but he wanted her to be safe about it. And once he knew, once he got there and heard that she was being stupid, he’d be so disappointed. And holy fuck, if disappointment isn’t the worst thing Nat could ever receive from Daddy. 

She remembers throwing her arms around Ian’s neck, the doctor telling her she had to hold still while a few medical tools clattered to the ground off the tray where they were getting to work on her arm. She threw both arms around him, even though one was numb, and sobbed into his chest while he murmured apologies first to the doctor, then told him he’d have to wait, she was going to do this on her own terms. And he leaned his face against the top of her head. And let her bawl. He was so warm and so soft, she realized he’s so much more pliable than Daddy or Mom ever were, and she realized while the place of safety has always been Mom and Daddy, this place of comfort within Ian’s embrace was exactly what she needed. 

And she relishes it now. His octopus arms holding her tight, his face against the top of her head, and his silent comfort. His silent support. Knowing he’s had this feeling before. This feeling of leaving home and friends and family, doing something more than just a degree, something that’ll put her in uniform for the next twenty years if she’s lucky. Hell, thirty if she’s really lucky. Something that’ll be physically demanding and emotionally exhausting but so worth it. She’ll have her wings. She knows she will. Come hell or high water, no fucking tree in her backyard can stop her now. 

“First chance you get to make a phone call?”

“Mom.”

“Yep,” she can hear the smile in his voice. They’ve practiced this. Mom first. Mom is always first when it comes to military shit.

“Second chance?”

“Daddy.”

“Good. Write us letters.”

“Yep,” wiping at the tears on her cheeks before she backs out of the embrace that she’s not certain yet she wants to back out of. She knows it’s only going to get harder from here. If Daddy cries, and she knows he will, she’s not sure if she’ll be able to let go of him.

“I’ll try to get your dad to write legibly, but I make no promises,” he smiles, it’s kind of sad around the edges, but it’s mostly proud.

She swats at more tears rising and spilling over at the sight of his watery green irises, “I’ll figure it out. Or tell him to draw pictures instead,” she smirks.

He laughs, that big laugh that means he’s trying to hide the real things he’s feeling. Flicking away a tear that’s escaped his eye, hands landing on her shoulders, leaning to her level to tell her firmly, “I’m proud of you.”

“Yeah, yeah whatever gingerfather save the pride for when I graduate. Or when I pilot my first mission,” she can feel her eyebrows rising while his smile rises, “my first rescue mission,” she clarifies. She’s not gonna lie, dropping bombs sounds pretty cool, but the true worth in the flying is helping people. Giving them wings when they don’t have their own. Exactly the thing her parents have been doing for her for her entire life.

His arm is resting across her shoulders as they leave the safety of her bedroom together, starting the walk down the hallway. She smiles at all the memories crashing to the surface. The most mortifying thing that ever happened to her, locking herself in the bathroom when her first period started and Ted ratted her out to Daddy about why she was crying. They’d been at Sam’s house and she ran home in a tear and snot filled mess after Ted told her discreetly that she needed to check herself in the bathroom. She sat on the toilet and sobbed into her hands, knowing from what she’d listened to in sex ed that this was going to be the end of her life. And it’s not like she really believed that it was possible for a person to bleed for a week and not die. She didn’t believe it was possible to have to spend a quarter of every single month with a leaking hole between her legs that she’d have to plug with cotton or wear a fuckin’ glorified diaper. For decades. No, fuck that. She was convinced by the time she was fourteen and still hadn’t turned into some beautiful magical flower princess shooting hearts and stars and garnering the attention of all things male, that she’d be one of the lucky ones. The very few lucky females born without a uterus. That’d be fuckin’ great. She didn’t even have the slightest amount of tit yet and then she magically started dripping this disgusting fluid into her cotton sport-cut undies. 

Nat never had girlfriends. Never wanted all that stupid drama that comes with girlfriends. So it’s not like she had some great reference to what the female body goes through, aside from the illustrations and the stodgy old teacher talking about menstruation in class. Ew, and then they showed the slides about STDs and Nat was certain that not only was she lucky enough to not have a uterus, but also that she would never contact a penis in her life. 

Damn it, if that shit didn’t go and change. Ripping apart the engine in the old go-kart they dragged home from the dump. Sam’s house has a garage, and his dad has every tool known to man. It’s like heaven in there. Smells like dirt, oil, grease, and gasoline. Two-stroke engines. Oh, and fuck if Sam didn’t always smell that way too, and maybe that was what finally convinced her to throw caution to the STD slides. Groping each other in the dark backseat of the old ’67 Mustang his dad was restoring. That was later though. Much later. Either way, the day she came home with a dried barbecue sauce lookin’ smear on the back of her jeans and something even more interesting inside her undies, she sat on the toilet and sobbed into her hands. Listening to Ted’s voice mumbling some shit to Daddy on the other side of the door.

Then Daddy’s tapping and quiet concerned questions. Of course it had to fuckin’ happen when Mom was out of town. ‘Cause what girl gets her first period in the comfort of her own home with the awkward comfort of her own mother lingering nearby to explain the use of pads with wings and ‘lucky you are not twelve on streets of St Petersburg’ and fuckever else she was always going on about. 

She didn’t respond to him. But that didn’t stop him. When did that shit ever stop him? Then he was going on about Mandy starting her period when he was the only one home with her, after their mom died and he had to go to the corner store and steal a box of tampons only to get home and learn through the bathroom door that they were the wrong ones. And he had to go back and get some other fuckin’ ones and that dumb bitch was awfully picky about what fuckin’ cotton wad she was shovin’ in her twat for someone who was willing to… his voice had trailed off then and he wondered if he should go to the store and what kind he should buy and figuring she shouldn’t use tampons yet anyway. And maybe he should call Mandy and make her deal with the shit ‘cause he dealt with her shit, and then maybe he’s Nat’s dad and he always has her back whether it’s baseballs, engines, trees, tiaras, helmets, fuckin’ dresses or some fuck, or a goddamn natural bodily function. Then his voice droned on for what felt like hours, reading some article nearly word for word with a whole lot of fucks and shits thrown in to spice it up, right off his phone screen no doubt about how to talk to your daughter about her first period or some shit. 

It deteriorated quickly from there. Turning into some crap about, ‘just ‘cause you’re a woman now don’t mean you can start fuckin’ around and gettin’ knocked up and bringin’ Southside scumbags home for fuckin’ dinner or some shit’. And she knew his brows were up and his finger was out like it was going to jab into the door. And there she was, still sitting on the toilet but suddenly the tears were gone and she was laughing instead. And when he heard her laugh, he started laughing.

Then the jerk seriously started talking about sex. And masturbation and holy fuck was she glad there was a door between them. Either way, she had the screen off the window and was halfway out, determined to head to Ms Bodnar’s and steal an old lady diaper to keep her shit from spilling down her legs on the way to the store, when she heard Ian’s voice coming home from work. It just wasn’t that complicated or that awkward when he slid a pad under the door and told her to take a warm bath. 

The inevitable first boyfriend who was more than a friend. By the time she brought him around, she’d already explored everything there was to explore with Sam in the backseat of that Mustang. And maybe in his bedroom. And one time behind the bleachers after a football practice. But that was all just for the sake of science and exploring human nature anyway. The first boyfriend she brought home for dinner was an absolute fuckin’ disaster. Ian trying to act all welcoming and asking too many questions about his home life and his parents and his school grades. And Daddy just scowling at him, rubbing his left hand over his right fist every once in a while. Ted certainly got a kick out of it. Watching her plight, he never brought a girl home to run the gauntlet. Nerd might still be a virgin actually. Maybe college girls like smart sensitive guys. Or maybe at a place like Northwestern he’ll be a chick magnet ‘cause he’ll be the least nerdy of the nerds. Good for him.

The first time her and Teddy got drunk. They stole a pint of Jack and passed it back and forth until it was gone. Sitting under the L and waiting to feel loose and carefree like all their classmates had claimed it made them feel. Nat just felt stupid and couldn’t form a coherent sentence to save her life. Teddy laughed at her until he threw up. It just wasn’t as glamorous as their friends made it out to be. If Nat wanted to feel loose and carefree all she had to do was go blast a few baseballs to the outfield or spend a night out in the woods in a tent. Getting high, though, that was different. That’s always been an easy way to take the edge off, whatever stress a teen girl can carry around gets dulled with a few puffs off a joint. 

And she don’t feel one bit bad for smokin’ it either. Fuck, that’ll have to change. Can’t do that shit at the Academy. Unless Uncle Lip can find some way around the shit leavin’ a trace in drug test. Maybe she should suggest it to him. Add some chemical to it to mask it’s presence? That possible? Nah, probably not without fuckin’ up something pure. 

“Oh shit, you’re ready already?” Teddy yawns and stretches as he exits his bedroom, “damn, that came up quick, huh?”

He won’t admit he’ll miss her. Why the fuck would he do somethin’ like that? 

“Day disappears quick when you sleep ’til noon you lazy fuck,” she grins at him. 

Ian’s hand clamps down on her shoulder, “I’ll bring your bag down. Meet you at the car.”

“K,” it feels weird when his presence is no longer at her side. Now she’s starin’ at her brother’s eyes that have become so fuckin’ familiar, she looks at his more than she’s ever looked at her own in the mirror. Best way she knows her own eyes is by lookin’ at Daddy. But Ted’s are different, she don’t know anyone else with his. And the shit she’s said and done in front of those eyes, and those eyes have never passed a single judgmental glare her way, fuck, fine, “miss me?”

He tries to shake his head and he tries to smirk, but he fails miserably. Instead, reaching for a giant suffocating hug. He ain’t as tall as Ian, but he’s taller than Nat by about three inches. Just the right height for her to hide in his neck while she pretends not to cry. Fuck, if this is how she’s going to react to Ian and Teddy, then she’s fucked five ways from Sunday by the time she gets through Mom and Daddy. 

“Yeah maybe a little,” he sighs when he leans out of the embrace, a half-assed smirk on his face. He reaches out to give her braid a hard yank, hard enough to pull her head back. Her response is a nipple-twister. 

It’s not long from there before they’re both on the floor, ground wrestling when Daddy shouts, “break the damn banister before you leave I’ll break your necks.”

The threat is a moot point, but whatever, it makes them stop. 

And, oh yeah, he’s standing at the bottom of that stairs. Immediately when his eyes land on hers, he thumbs at his nose. Big fucking crybaby. Not that her own tears aren’t streaking down her cheeks again by the time she’s in his arms. Fuck, he holds on too tight. He always has, “Jesus Dad, you’re gonna break my fuckin’ ribs.”

“Language,” he mumbles into the side of her head, “people are gonna start thinkin’ your first word was fuck.”

“It was,” she reminds him.

“Yeah, well, you ain’t gotta be proud of that.”

“Leave that to you?”

“Pride?” he leans out just far enough to look at her face. His eyes are clouded over and brimming with tears that he’s mostly letting fall, “ain’t that one of the deadly sins or some shit?”

“I think you should be more worried about the ten commandments condemning you to Hell,” she smirks at him.

“The whole murderin’ and stealin’ shit? I ain’t worried,” he smirks back at her, eyes twinkling while he watches her face, “I can’t say I’m worried about pride takin’ me under either. No damn sin to take a shit ton of pride in your kid.”

“Yeah, well, I wouldn’t be me without you.”

The grin is near enough to split his face in half, “damn right kid,” tugging her into another bone crushing hug. One tight enough to think he’ll never let go. 

————

Sitting in the back seat between Mom, who is chattering on nervously about the Russian women pilots during WWII, the Night Witches and how maybe someday she should do that ancestry bullshit to see if any of them are related to her since she doesn’t remember anything about her own family before they shipped her over to the States and even if she did, there’s no way in frozen Hell she’d get in touch with them. 

And Daddy, who keeps watching out the window long enough to pretend he’s not still emotional, then looking at her with raised brows, rolling his eyes over Mom’s monologue. Gingerfather is driving and he’s taking his goddamn sweet time gettin’ there too. Whitetail is in the passenger seat, he married Mom when Nat was eleven and he ain’t all bad, he’s just kind of annoyingly timid and more or less just hides when Mom is on the warpath, but whatever, Mom likes him. Or she likes pushin’ him around, Nat’s not sure, it seems to work for them though, so she ain’t judgin’. 

The mood starts shifting at the airport, Mom’s done yammering on, and Dad’s hand has slipped into hers between them. He keeps squeezing every time his other hand rises to his face. Yeah, she’ll miss the hell out of this. Sure, sometimes it was annoying as fuck to have four parents always askin’ questions and interested in what she was doin’ and who she was with and on and on and on. But without them, without a single one of them, she wouldn’t be exactly where she is right now. And she ain’t gonna lie, she’s pretty fuckin’ proud of where she is right now. She’s prepared, she’s ready, and she’s more than fuckin’ willing to dedicate her next three decades to serving her country and her cause and her fellow uniformed coworkers who will become just an extension of family to her. 

She laughs to herself when she sees a parade of idiots with banners and noise makers, here to raise holy hell for some poor unfortunate soul. Thank fuck she convinced the family to just let her parents have a private send off. She survived the extended family dinner last night at the diner. The whole fuckin’ lot of Milkoviches and Gallaghers are enough for her to be relieved to get the hell out of the Southside. Every time she misses her parents, she can take comfort in knowing the rest of the extended family is always lurking around too and she sure in the fuck won’t miss them. 

“You fucking assholes,” she grunts as the realization that the horde of idiots with signs and pom-poms and noise-makers are her horde of idiots, “I hate you all,” jabbing Ian’s shoulder, “you the most,” as he turns and grins his big annoyingly bright grin at her.

“Good. Now get the hell out of the car,” with a wink, pushing his own door open. 

Her narrowed gaze lands on Daddy next. He shrugs, “didn’t know Wonderbug, I swear.”

“I did,” Mom’s sharp elbow meets her ribs before she shifts to get out of the car, turning back to yank Nat out her side and into the throng of dipshits and Southside trash, “does not hurt to let people love you and make fool of you,” she announces, “and fool of themselves for you.”

“Might as well get used to it,” Aunt Fi is the first one to grab her for a hug, “this entire family will be here every single time you fly out and every single time you fly in.”

“What we’re really waiting for is the day you’re the one flying the plane,” Aunt Debbie adds. 

“I’ll be targeting orange first,” she promises when her eyes land on Teddy’s smug smile. Wondering how the hell he kept this a secret. He shrugs as another set of arms wraps around her, this time a bony frame with cold hands. 

She doesn’t have to open her eyes to know it’s Aunt Mandy. Her last brick of self-respect crumbles at the scent of her, turning into a complete and total blubbering mess against her. 

————

“Stupid fuckers,” she’s still cursing them out at security. Mom and Dad are the only ones that came in the building. Everyone else probably has warrants out for their arrest or are carrying drugs or guns or knives or basically anything and everything on the list of banned items. Not that she trusts either parent on any given day to be free of those items either, but they must have prepared for this part at the very least. 

“They’re yours forever,” Daddy tugs her braid playfully. 

The line keeps getting shorter and she finds herself wishing it would stall out. They’d get stuck here for hours or days or weeks. Shut the airport down with the wrath of Mother Nature or something, just to give her more time. Shit, she’s scared as hell. It’s hitting her like a ton of fucking bricks just how hard it’s going to be to be away from home, to have no phone time for the first few weeks, to have limited phone time after that, to be sent to whatever base they decide to send her after her schooling is over. She’ll have little say in when she gets to take leave, when she gets to come home, when she gets to see these people again. Even once she has the freedom to video chat, it’s not the same as feeling Daddy’s hand on her shoulder or Mom’s lips on her forehead. 

Her chin trembles every time she takes a step forward and they both tighten their grip on her when there’s only one person in line in front of her. No stalling any longer. No feet dragging or finding excuses to linger. 

They wrap around her in unison, both of them pretending they aren’t crying. All three of them pretending they aren’t crying. What a bunch of saps they are. 

“We’ll both be right here when you get back,” Daddy promises.

She nods. Knowing he’s right. He’s telling her the truth, it’s not just for comfort. She remembers every single time she’s heard him say that. Starting with the first day of preschool and every single year after that. Fuck, he even said it on the first day of her senior year. By then she was certain it was just for their own peace of mind that they both take the day off work, the first day of school every single year to be there when she left in the morning and be there when the bell rang at the end of the day. And they always were right where they said they’d be. Every single year. So it ain’t like that’s going to change.

She wipes her face with the backs of her hands, peels herself away from her parents and walks into the security checkpoint with all the confidence they’ve both instilled in her. She can’t turn her head to watch them, knowing they’re still standing there. They’re still keeping their eyes on her. They’re probably leaning against each other by now. They’ll be bickering in about another two minutes. Then when she’s on the other side, when she turns her head to give them one last wave and one last smile, they’ll stop hissing at each other long enough to give her the last shred of strength she needs to keep moving. 

All the while knowing, that after she becomes a cadet, and until she graduates in four years as Second Lieutenant Milkovich; every single time her flight home lands, every single time she sets foot in Chicago again, every single time she comes home; they’ll be right there waiting. Just like always.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not snip snap snouting this one just yet... I am closing it for now just because I can only handle having so many open works and at least this way I can get this one off my desktop :) I do feel as though there's something missing and I can't decide what it is. If you faithful, supportive readers have any requests for this piece or future look-ins let me know! 
> 
> I appreciate the company and the support through my little breakdown back there a ways! I've loved taking this journey with our little family and may visit with them again down the road!
> 
> You know the drill - kudos/comments appreciated. Share if you deem worthy, but you won't find me on social media. Don't like it? Piss on it, wipe your ass with it, light it on fire. Whatever floats your boat :)


	14. Happy Birthday, You Fuckin' Prick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey's 40th Birthday

Happy Birthday, You Fuckin’ Prick

 

Sleep is starting to shift, starting to fade, starting to become a distant memory as Ian’s body rolls on the bed. Fully expecting his arm to flop out and land on Mickey’s shoulders, he’s surprised when they land instead on his thighs. He’s sitting up. 

“I just had the best dream,” he mumbles, leaning his face into his husband’s hip, sliding his hand down his thigh, taking a long, deep inhale.

Mickey’s hand immediately lands on Ian’s head, sliding hair through his fingers, “hmm?”

“A dream about you,” fingers meeting the hem of his boxers, “of course.”

“Hmm,” his hand is rising. Either to grind eyes or thumb his nose. 

Ian sighs, leaning out of his husband’s warmth, “alright pouty puss, what’s this now?”

“What?” brows up, lips pursed.

Shit. What’d he miss? Oh shit, “you’re supposed to still be asleep.”

“Why?”

“Because how am I supposed to make breakfast for bed for your birthday if you know I’m doing it?”

“Breakfast in bed.”

“For bed.”

“In bed.”

“For bed. It’s made in the kitchen for bed.”

“It’s eaten in the bed. It’s breakfast in bed.”

“I’ll make breakfast for bed and we’ll eat it in bed. Or we could eat…” 

His brows dip this time, like a ‘fuck off’ without the finger. 

“C’mon Mick. Breakfast sausage,” his hand slides further under the edge of his boxers, lips pressing down on his hip right above his waistband.

This time his hand rises, swatting at Ian’s.

“Fuck, forty not a good number or what?”

“No, fuck, it ain’t about that.”

Ian sighs, tilting away from his grumpy husband, propping his head on his hand to look at him. Studying every line and crease on his face, fuck, he’s gorgeous. Even with that chronic grump look that he’s wearing. His hand rises, thumb meeting his lip before he gnaws on the lower one for a long moment.

“Oh, it isn’t about the birthday. It’s about the first birthday without the kids, isn’t it?”

“No,” he snaps it.

“Yeah it is.”

He shrugs, his eyes finally finding Ian’s and holding. Oh shit, they’re misty. 

“Mick,” he sighs, reaching out to entwine fingers with fingers, “you big ol’ softy, come here,” rolling to his back and opening his arms wide.

He’s tucked into Ian’s chin immediately. Finding that place, the one where he can hide to shut the world out any time he wants. Ian tilts to rest his lips against his soft black hair, taking a deep luxurious inhale of his scent while he waits for him to talk. To admit just how much of a tenderhearted guy that fatherhood has made him. And just how much that big old tender heart is breaking at the prospect of spending his first birthday without a single kid in twenty years. Last year was rough, but at least Teddy was still here to shift some focus away from his lip-gnawing and nose-thumbing over Nat not being there. Not that he’d ever openly admit to his birthday being something he enjoyed, something he loved because it was the greatest excuse he could come up with to have all the people he loved, even though he’d never admit to loving most of them, together. All in one place to drink and swear and eat and drink some more. To do something embarrassing as fuck, like sing the birthday song to him. He’s always made it extremely clear that no one bring a damn gift. ‘Cause fuckever they bring they’ll be leavin’ with shoved down their throats. Brows always dangerously high when he says it. 

His hand rises to smear something he’d never admit to being a tear, off his cheek, and his voice is all thick when he starts speaking, “you know, I was nineteen when Nat was born, but it was right before my twentieth birthday. You wanna know how I spent my twentieth?”

“Hmm,” rubbing his free hand up his husband’s arm, “I’m going out on a limb here, but I’m thinking, up to your fuckin’ elbows in baby shit?”

“I spent the damn day tryin’ to get her to take a fuckin’ bottle. She was on the tit only, and Svet decided that fuckin’ mornin’ was a great fuckin’ time to go out and run some errands so she could throw me some fuckin’ birthday bash. And she was all fuckin’ fresh mom loopy and shit. Left me some damn pumped titty milk in the fridge, but the little shit had never been bottle fed yet. And I didn’t know how to warm that shit up right. Think I burned the poor,” his voice chokes off and he clears his throat, “she was so damn tiny. Sounded like a cat still when she cried, but she just cried. And cried. Her little fists were all balled up and flailin’ all over like she was gonna fight her way out of the damn bottle feeding.”

Free hand finding Mickey’s hair and sliding through while he’s speaking, “her little mouth kept opening so fuckin’ wide when she’d cry but as soon as that stupid bottle touched her lip she’d clamp it shut. I felt like I was torturin’ her. I kept callin’ Svet, but she left her phone in the car or some fuck, wasn’t answerin’. Like I couldn’t handle this tiny little nine pound lump of human. She finally just fuckin’ cried herself out. She was so soft and warm,” he half gasps it and Ian wants to accuse him of hitting menopause, but he’s not that big of an asshole. 

Instead he keeps his lips against his head, his hands through his hair and stroking his arm, “what about your twenty-first?”

“She took her first steps.”

“Twenty-second?”

“She fell on the sidewalk when we were walking to the store for some milk. She scraped her palms and her knees and didn’t shed a single damn tear. She stood up and threw her arms up in the air like she had just landed a fuckin’ gymnastics routine in the damn Olympics or some fuck.”

“Twenty-third?”

“She decorated the cake. She told me it was unicorn poop.”

Ian snickers, giving his arm a squeeze, “you had nineteen birthdays before her, you had nineteen with her, one without her so far and you survived. At least this year she can video chat, she's not on such a tight leash at the academy, she’ll remember to call.”

He nods against Ian's chin. Damn, this man is, he is so much. And there are no words to describe how insanely beautiful his giant heart is.

————

“I told you to stay the fuck in bed,” he hollers as soon as he hears Mickey’s feet on the stairs.

“I’ll get back in bed.”

“Right now.”

He shrugs. Not stopping on his route away from the bedroom and into the kitchen. Pouring himself a cup of coffee.

“Mick,” swatting his hand with the spatula, to which he receives a shove to his hip, “you really suck at being doted on.”

“Yeah, well you suck at doting quickly. I’m fuckin’ hungry,” FUCK is lingering over the sizzling pan of bacon.

“That’s going to burn.”

“No fuck,” pinching a piece and tossing it quickly at the paper towel lined plate, leaning forward to blow on it, dabbing the edges with the paper towel. So maybe over the years Ian's helpful health reminders have started to sink into that thick skull. Just a little bit.

Ian feels himself smiling as he watches, the impatience still exists enough that he tosses the whole piece in his mouth, pushing it around and exhaling around it like he can blow the steam off his tongue before it can burn him. His middle finger rises, lingering in the air between them, which only makes Ian smile harder before he leans forward and sucks it into his mouth. 

Rising the response he knew would rise: the brows. Ian’s hand darts out from his side, grasping the back of his husband’s head quickly and tugging him into his lips. Bacon, coffee, lips and tongue. 

Holy shit, a birthday without the kids, the first birthday morning they’ve been together without kids. This could turn into, this could turn into something, really, fucking… his other hand drops the spatula and lands on Mickey’s soft, bare, lower back, dragging him in close. 

In exactly the moment his mind is wandering towards the image of his husband’s head thrown back in passion on the kitchen counter, the back door slams open. They startle away from one another, both adjusting their half-hard dicks and avoiding eye contact with the intruder. 

Their dark haired, blue eyed intruder who unceremoniously dumps an armload of groceries on the kitchen table with a thud, “fucking fuck Mick, why is the hottest fucking day of the year always your birthday?”

“Mornin’ to you too bitchwit,” he snarks at her, reaching for another piece of sizzling bacon and throwing it to the plate.

“Well I was going to say Happy Birthday, you fuckin’ prick.”

He waves her off with his greasy fingers, taking a swig of coffee while she scans him over, “guess Ian’s breakfast in bed didn’t pan out, huh?”

“I’ll fuckin’ get back in bed,” he barks it at her around the mouthful of bacon.

She snickers, “probably should. Clearly you’re missing out on some much needed beauty sleep.”

The finger responds. Mandy shrugs, leaning in to kiss Ian’s cheek, “mornin' Saint Ian.”

“Funny,” Mickey grumps at her, plopping down on the barstool at the end of the counter.

“I thought you were going back to bed.”

“The fuck you even here for?”

“For your birthday,” she side-steps over, does the same song and dance with a piece of bacon that her brother just did, “I’m cooking the main course for dinner, so you might want to be nice to me. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve poisoned a meal…”

His eyebrows dip as his eyes scan her over, knitting together for a moment while his lips are pursed. 

Is she actually being honest? Could that be… is that what really happened to Terry? Mickey says it was the meth, but it’s not like they would have done an autopsy on the guy.

Mickey laughs, looking at her with some kind of strange demented respect and shakes his head. She shrugs, does the bacon song and dance again.

“What the fuck is it with you two?” Ian wonders, exasperated at all the fingertip burning that’s happening this morning.

“Hungry,” she shrugs.

————

“What’d you do to him this morning?” Mandy wonders, setting dishes in the dishwasher as she peeks out the window to watch her brother angrily pulling on a cigarette with the splashes on August’s brilliant sun lighting him to blindingly bright. Or at least, that how Ian sees it, “I mean, he’s always grumpy on his birthday, or pretending to be grumpy, but this year seems like legitimate grump.”

“First year without either kid,” he turns his focus off his husband’s pale flesh and feels himself smiling at Mandy. 

“But that’s…”

“A surprise,” he cuts her off with a whisper. Windows are open, though he’s certain there’s enough other noises around the house that Mickey cannot hear their voices, but so far, this surprise has actually remained a surprise by some will of God or Fate or Destiny, or the fact that Ian had Svetlana threaten everyone who could possibly have spilled the secret before it was time. God, Fate, Destiny, or a Russian ex-stripper with a hammer. One of them did the trick. 

————

“Alright birthday boy,” Ian sighs, sitting down on the closed toilet lid, listening to the shower and imagining the exact impact points of every single droplet of water on bare skin, “mini-golf, go-karts, and paintballing await.”

“Fuck off Gallagher.”

“You’re going to run out of warm water.”

“Don’t matter. Hot out.”

“Do I have to come in there and give you your birthday spankings?”

“You even try that shit, I’ll…”

“Rip my arm off and beat me death with it,” but he’s standing up anyway, removing his shorts and pulling the curtain aside. Bearing down on eleven years of marriage, and seeing his naked body still sends a shockwave directly through Ian’s core. 

————

“Mmm,” he finally sighs out a relaxed breath, his head tilted back in the spray of the shower, Ian’s fingers pressing gentle prints in his jaw, “good game Gallagher.”

“You too Milkovich,” leaning forward to kiss his nose, taking a handful of asscheek while it’s still bare and damp and Mickey’s actually pliable and relaxed, “give you a better round of birthday sex later.”

“Mmm hmm,” which translates to something more like, ‘you damn well better’. By the time Ian wandered up here to find him hiding in the shower, they already had half a house full of Gallaghers and Milkoviches. 

“Alright,” swatting his right cheek, “let’s get this party going, shall we?”

“Only reason we ever did that stuff was for the kids.”

“What stuff?”

“The mini-golf, go-karts, paintballing.”

“So? It’s still fun.”

“Yeah, well maybe since we ain’t got kids this year, we should just be fuckin’ grown ups or some fuck. Have a few fuckin’ drinks at the Alibi and fuck off.”

“No,” he laces his fingers through Mickey’s when they drop to turn off the water, bringing his hand to his lips, “it’s tradition. Then it’s dinner and the ball field. And when all the rest of the Southside trash trickles home at the end of the night, it’s just us, and a blanket and all the shooting stars a person can see from the middle of a damn Chicago night. Which is, none.”

His face burrows into Ian’s shoulder, certainly remembering all the years it was the four of them lying on their backs watching the city’s sky on an August night. Secrets are burning at Ian’s tongue and he wants to just spill it so badly, but he knows, this will be worth the wait. Even though it’s tearing his heart apart to see how much his husband is missing their children right in this moment, it’ll be worth it to keep this secret and let himself experience the joy upon the big reveal. 

Plus, Ian knows he’s full of shit when he says all that was for the kids. Some of the biggest, unrestrained smiles he’s ever seen on Mickey’s face have been on his birthday, when he’s living the childhood he never got to live the first time around. 

————

“Forty. Is not bad for man supposed to die young,” Svetlana does something resembling a smile before she reaches out for one of her stiff, board-like hugs, “we are to paintball first this year,” she announces.

“That ain’t how this works,” Mickey snorts at her, “paintball is last so we ain’t playing mini-golf with paint dryin’ in our hair.”

“No. Paintball first this year,” leveling him with her eyes while she’s still close to his body.

He takes a step back, studying her face, most likely wondering if she has a hammer somewhere on her being. His mouth opens, but she cuts him off, “is reserved for rest of afternoon. Forty is,” she shrugs, her hand rising to wave him off, “new tradition. Red, blue, green paint; cover the grey,” as her hand flaps over his hair.

He darts out of her line of contact, “fuck you. I ain’t got any grey hair yet.”

Ian can’t hold in the snort, opening his mouth to remind him of the grey hair he just pulled out of his nose the other night, but the fucking brows are up dangerously high again. Instead he reaches out, slides a hand down his lower back, knowing that’ll turn him into putty against his palm, “get your gear on, let’s do this,” pulling his hand back to swat his ass quickly before he walks away.

————

“I’m comin’ for you Army,” Mickey warns as he pulls his skull face mask down over his features, hiding the smirk that’s rising.

“I know you are,” Ian smirks back, not missing the innuendo in his tough guy facade. Pulling his own Patriot mask down and readying himself for the oncoming storm of brightly colored explosions as the countdown timer begins. This is how they do things every single year. They team up, usually it’s the four of them, take out all the other Milkovich/Gallagher opponents, then they go for each other. There’s never been a ‘let you win’ moment for any of them. Even when the kids were young. Mickey would shield them behind him every time they were on the move, ‘oscar mike’ he’d grunt at them, their cue to step in line behind him. Only time Ian was ever the cooler parent was when he was teaching them military radio lingo, which quickly became Mickey’s preferred form of offering instruction and once again he was the cooler parent. Hell, they still have the handheld radios, the kids used those to make contact well into their teens. Sam’s house was the usual hangout and it was within range, it was somehow much cooler to check in with their dads when it was a military style radio than just a plain old smartphone that only cost an arm and a fucking leg. 

Ian finds himself smiling at the memories, all the times things were just starting to get hot and heavy at home and the radio would start up with the static and a breathy whisper like they’d just been out running a ropes course. Or they were in covert mode and slinking their way through back-alleys. 

“The fuck you smilin’ for? You’re about to have my ball-splatter all over your chest tough guy.”

“Oh, gonna play that way, huh?”

“Mmm, hmm.”

Fuck, he wishes he could see the expression. But it’s plenty vivid in his imagination. Seared into his closed lids, along with every other expression that man makes. Not a single one of them that doesn’t effect his heart wildly. Or his dick. Or both at the same time. 

————

Panting, and sweating, and grunting. Ball-splatter remnants over every single surface except the one they’re both waiting for. Shooting for, aiming for. Ian takes cover when he catches site of Mandy in her Predator mask on the prowl. She’s after the birthday boy. She’s the one that took him out last year. Ian got knocked out of last year’s game early by a certain mad Russian with a sultry devil mask on. Sneaky bitch. He took her out immediately this year, not falling for her damsel in distress act twice, “fool me once,” he growled at her when he took her at close range. 

“Shame on me,” she responded, hands up in defeat, but he shot her anyway. As ex-wives go, she’s been easy to deal with, they’ve maintained a friendship even with Nat gone away from home. But it’s still satisfying as hell to shoot the only other bitch that’s ever gotten a piece of Mickey. Watching his designated color red splatter on that bitch is satisfying as hell.

The blue paint splatters square on Mandy’s chest, “fuck you!” she hollers towards where her brother is crouching back down behind a barrier. Stalking off the course, kicking dirt the whole way. 

“Down to you and me tough guy. Whattaya got Army?” 

Oh, if only it was down to you and me, Ian smiles inside his mask as he watches the shadows taking shape, slinking across the course undetected by the man who is about to get the fucking surprise of his life. 

Ian adjusts, craning his head around his barrier to get the full view. Nat’s ripped off camo pants, combat boots, scrapped knees. The chest protector crooked, just like always, her silver samurai assassin mask with one horn broken off from the impact point of the match three years ago. She almost had the whole damn game won, but the lace of her boot came untied and when she was running over to put the bullet in her dad’s back she tripped, smashing her head hard enough off a barrier to rip a horn on her way down. It was only after Mickey was kneeling beside her, holding her face in his hands and checking for pupil reactivity that she shot him in cold-blooded murder, no doubt the cut-throat Russian bred into her. 

Behind her is the lanky frame of their son. Skinny jeans, untied tennies and the chest protector buttoned up tight, settled squarely on his shoulders, his gait even and light. His is the black god ghost mask, fiery red hair peaking out around the edges and Ian is going to have to get on him about getting a damn haircut, if he’s going to be a professional he has to look the part. 

Ian gets down to his knees, half-crawling around the barrier to follow the kids with his eyes. He watches the shadow of his husband’s crouched frame, fuck, he’s not going to be able to see his face. His reaction is going to be hidden by the mask. Damn. 

Shit, they’ve gotta shoot him. Get him to take his mask off. Ian’s hand slides into his back pocket, he’ll text the kids, tell them, “you fucker!” he shouts across the arena as blue paint splatters his wrist. That fucking stings. Fucker.

“No phones fuckface,” muffled through the mask, behind the barrier and across the distance.

Not a kill shot, but now he’ll have to shoot left handed, “you’re in for it now Milkovich,” sliding his phone back into his pocket, readjusting once more to get a view of the kids. 

Nat is squatting on the opposite side of the barrier from her dad, Teddy behind her, down on one knee waiting for the signal. 

“You’re done firecrotch,” comes drifting through the space as blue paint explodes on his face mask.

“Fuck you,” yanking it off quickly, while his chest is peppered with more paint.

“Ball splat… fucking, fuck,” leaping back a step, “fuck,” close range yellow and orange all over Mickey's chest, “fucking, fuckers, you little,” yanking his mask off. Brows high, gun being discarded quickly. The sound of the kids’ laughter falling around him, forcing his brows down to a sweet little dip and that finger that was rising to point his dissatisfaction is now rising to grind into his lids. Thumb and forefinger before he can even take the steps to the kids. They’re removing their masks in unison, shuffling around the barrier to take hold of their big crybaby of a dad. 

Ian smiles to himself, taking the strides over slowly, knowing he’ll be the one receiving the ass-chewing for setting this whole thing up. And for setting it up when the rest of the family gets to see just how soft-hearted his little piece of Southside trash, reformed thug, ex-con, ex-criminal, FUCK U-UP bruised knuckled, shit-talking, bitch-slapping, incredible father and husband he is. 

“I fuckin’ hate you Gallagher,” he manages to growl through the shield of the kids that are tucked into his arms, his face is mostly hidden in their shoulders and Ian thinks it’s so fucking cute that both kids are taller than him. And it’s so fucking perfect that he can reach his arms around all three of them and still meet the back of his husband’s head to slide his fingers through his sweaty hair. 

————

Mickey tips his head back, swallowing the last dregs of his beer before he tilts to look at Ian. Ian’s arm immediately snakes his way behind his husband’s back, slipping around his waist, palm landing on his hip. The lights of the ball-field reflecting in his gorgeous eyes, his smile gentle, wholly satisfied before he cocks his head, “c’mere fucker.”

Setting his beer down to slide his fingers through that black hair, Svet was only kind of right, only a few grey hairs. His thumb slips across his stubbled cheek, knowing the response will be parted lips. And he leans in. Meeting his warm mouth tenderly, lingering for a long moment before he parts his lips, tongue caressing Mickey’s bottom lip. His soft sigh sends a tingle down Ian’s spine before his tongue darts out, meeting Ian’s while his hand contacts the back of his head, pulling him closer. 

Mickey’s beer bottle clinks against the bench behind him and his now free hand slides over Ian’s thigh, heading directly towards his zipper. 

Maybe this could happen. The dugout is dark, the hand is so close, it’s gracing the surface of Ian’s jeans, meeting the hardening bulge underneath. They’d never get away with fucking, not right now, but a hand job. Reciprocated hand jobs, that hand that’s resting on his hip starts making progress towards Mickey’s crotch.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” both of them jump back when a ball is hurled at the wall behind their heads.

Nat’s brows locked and loaded, hands on her hips, “I didn’t take fuckin’ leave to stand here and watch my dads make-out and grope in the fuckin’ dugout. It’s hot as fuckin’ balls tonight and we’re out here runnin’ our asses off. Now,” her finger rises, brows nearly at her hairline, “get the fuck out here, hit a fuckin’ run so we can call it a goddamn night already.”

Ian’s not sure if it’s the brows, or the Russian death-stare that makes her intimidating but Mickey’s scowl doesn’t stand a chance against that face.

————

“Is this really happening?” voice whisper soft, eyes even softer, questioning Ian before his face tilts to press a kiss against the top of Nat's head. Her head that is resting on his heart, face aimed skyward, eyes closed. 

“Her mouth stopped moving like ten minutes ago,” Ian responds, smiling as he takes in the sight. His husband sprawled flat on his back, their daughter with her head on his heart, her body perpendicular to his, limp with sleep, “yep, she’s passed out,” leaning up on his elbow to scan over to their son. His bright orange hair nearly touching Mickey’s where he rolled over to his belly probably twenty minutes ago, face down in the middle of the field, hands tucked under his forehead, “so’s he,” Ian confirms after observing his breathing pattern that he’s known from day one, “you did it,” laying himself down on his husband’s free shoulder, “you bored them both to death,” smirking against his neck, pressing a kiss against his pulse point.

“Fuck you firecrotch.”

“Yeah,” watching delicate goosebumps rise under his breath, hand finding those FUCK fingers and slipping through, “guess your birthday fuck will have to wait.”

“Yah,” his lips meet the top of Ian’s head, “guess so tough guy,” his sigh is soft, filmed with exhaustion, “but, ah, ya know, once these little fuckers are out, they’re out, so…”

“Yep,” getting to his feet in a rush, helping gently slide their daughter’s head off Mickey’s chest, “she’s so damn cute when she’s asleep.”

As soon as he’s to his feet, Ian grabs him, both hands clamping down hard on his ass to grind him in close to his body, “happy birthday Mick,” nearly breathless already and he’s not even against his lips yet. 

————

“Mmmm, fuck,” his head falls back against the ground with the final pulse of orgasm.

Ian waits, leaning over him, watching his eyes roll back and press closed tight, breath shuddering as it leaves his perfect lips. Fluttering back open, reflecting all their years together and all the years yet to come in the darkness of the dugout, “how many years we been married?”

Those gorgeous eyes narrow, “fuck should I know?”

Nuzzling his nose to get him to surrender his lips again, “it was twelve years ago,” remaining close, letting every single part of his husband seep into his soul the way it always has, “tomorrow. The first time we took the kids to the beach together,” lips to lips without closing their eyes, “the first time you spent the night with me,” another smooch, “and I’m the asshole that didn’t remember it was your birthday the day before the date,” feeling his hand growing soft on Ian’s shoulder-blade.

“Yeah, yeah fuckface, ain’t like you’d remember that shit anyway, ain’t like you were supposed to.”

“Yeah, but…”

“Fuck off,” his hand is trailing up Ian’s neck, sliding into his hair and pressing his face as close as possible to his own, “we spent almost ten years apart, there was like, one birthday we spent together on the first go-round. And it ain’t like I told you back then, so.”

“Wait, when? We were together on your birthday? In high school?”

“Uh, you were in high school.”

“Details,” he grins, nudging at his nose again to get his lips. Fuck, he can’t handle not having those lips on his when his face is this close, “when was it?”

He taps the side of Ian’s head like he’s knocking on a wooden door, brows up, lips pursed. Jesus fucking Christ, he crashes into those lips, not reigning in the passion as he lets his mind swirl with the memories of the first time they were a couple. Whether anyone knew it or not, back then, they were a couple. They were a couple every single time they went shooting at the old buildings, every single time Mickey set up that obstacle course for Ian, every single time they came back here to shotgun beers and, “here,” he pulls away to blurt out, “here. It was here,” his voice growing louder with excitement, “it was here, you prick, it was the night you got out of juvie for the first time, it was…”

“Shut the fuck up Army, you’re gonna wake the kids.”

A giggle escapes him, the one that makes Mickey grin like an idiot, sliding his fingers through his hair. HIs eyes, the way he looks at Ian, fuck, “eleven years Mick, we’ve been married for eleven years this Fall.”

“Well fuck, eleven years married to your dumb ass?”

“Mm hmm.”

His hand slides down to Ian’s cheek, thumb over his lips while he watches his smile spread, “ya know? Forty fuckin’ birthdays so far, think this one might be my favorite.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” tapping Ian’s cheek in that rough gentle way that only Mickey can tap, “you’re still an asshole for surprisin’ me though.”

“I know.”

“Long as you know.”

“Yep,” leaning into those pillow soft lips for as long as the jerk will let him. Sure, his back is probably sore by now from laying on the concrete floor of the dugout, “alright, I’ll get the fuck off you before round two starts.”

“Uh, round three dipshit.”

————

Sure, he spent most of round three peaking around the ledge of the dugout to make sure there was no movement on the pitcher’s mound, but Mickey seems sated. And exhausted. And now he’s going to have to half drag him back out to the mound. Taking the moment first to linger, and taste him. To feel him when he’s relaxed and content. Fucking happy. He’s fucking happy. And Ian can’t help but to be proud of his damn self for making him just that much more happy this afternoon. 

Nuzzling his nose against his husband’s until his eyes flicker open, “I love you.”

His hand rises, lazily tapping Ian’s cheek, “thanks.”

Pulling back slightly to study those glossy eyes in the city’s nighttime darkness, “for loving you?”

“No, fuck you,” eyes narrowed like Ian is the dumbest piece of shit on the planet, “for getting the kids here dipshit.”

“Oh… that,” he shrugs like it was nothing, but the brows call his bluff and he grins. Knowing that Mickey knows it was the secret-keeping that threatened to burn it’s way to the surface, that was the hard part. In a marriage where there has never been a secret, even the good ones seem like a betrayal, “you’re welcome.”

————

Getting back into position, lifting their daughter’s head to lower it slowly back to it’s original resting place, the same heart she listened to throughout the years of her childhood, many hours spent there as a baby. Ian smiles, watching her lids flutter slightly at the disturbance while Mickey’s hand slides over her braided hair. Rolling to her shoulder without fully waking, her cheek pressed firmly against his t-shirt, a deep breath through her nose and a sleep-crusted whisper, “happy birthday Daddy,” as his face tilts to hide his smile against the back of her head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I almost want to say something gross like fluff. Not that I am opposed to reading fluff from time to time, but writing fluff is just not my strong suit.
> 
> So I wanted to do something for Mickey's birthday, which according to the fandom page is Aug 10, so I'm a day early, but Saturdays in the summer - we all know how those go. I thought I'd throw something on the Freedom Series since that was spawned on his eighteenth birthday but then I thought I couldn't top the Snickers in the abandoned buildings in the first one and the sad memories being overridden by a sweet proposal in the second one. Then I thought I'd put it on Hunk Of Woman since I fixed the holiday season in that work (if you haven't read that one yet, do it, because it's fucking cute, and yes Mickey is dressed in drag for a few chapters but I promise it's not weird and it's still undeniably Mickey), but it just wouldn't have worked flow-wise with that one. And then I thought I'd add on to Fuck The 4th and make it a year long holiday one-shot collection. And then... the OC children reached out and slapped me. 
> 
> The hot as balls night in canon wasn't on his birthday, we figured out that the rape was, but since this version of Mickey was never raped, then I'm changing that up a little too because it's fiction and I do what I want :)
> 
> Do I feel bad that I put more work into a birthday for a fictional friend than I did for my own sister? No. Do I feel ashamed that I think enough about Mickey that I actually took the time to write some birthday fluff? No. Am I going to join or start a Mick-aholics a-fuckin'-nonymous? Yes. Yes, yes I am. If you'd like to share your Mickey addiction, this is a safe place... I'm only a year into my addiction and I don't see it going anywhere anytime soon! 
> 
> Alright, so I also thought I'd drop into this work since I wanted to let you readers know I'm still thinking about plot-lines for some future look-ins on these kids. I love them. Not to toot my own horn, but it's easier molding them than it is to try to work with Yev, especially now that I have myself convinced he's Mickey's brother. Coincidentally, it was also in Hunk Of Woman that I did my best work with the Mickey/Yev relationship. 
> 
> Still not snip, snap, snouting this one, just visiting :) Thanks all! I hope everyone is having an enjoyable summer!


	15. It's Boo, Motherfucker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Between the *'s is a flashback from when Nat was little (Mickey and Svet still living together, Ian still in the Army) told from Kev's perspective. After that it's present day Halloween with Mickey and the growing crew.

It’s Boo, Motherfucker

**********

Kevin Ball’s never been accused of being the sharpest crayon in the shed, or the brightest tool in the box; but there is one thing Kevin Ball knows. He knows when a man is a dead man.

Walking through the local market, and no, not the whole foods hippy bullshit. The actual fucking super market where shit is cheap, the floor is dirty, and it’s pretty fucking likely you’ll walk out with someone’s used bandaid stuck to the sole of your shoe. On the other side of the row of Halloween shit, oh, he forgot to mention that yeah, it’s the market where it’s not just food. It’s everything. And everything is cheap. Some things are beyond their date and they’re even cheaper that way. 

Either way, on the other side of the row is a voice he always recognizes immediately. Angry little fucker that he is, he remembers the first time he laid eyes on the tiny thug. He was like ten and Kev was in high school already but he was making out with his girlfriend in the park, and sure it was next to old needles and McDonald’s wrappers, or Burger King, it’s all about choice anyway; that were all over the parks in the Southside back then. Anyway, he was like sixteen making out with his girlfriend and he heard a fight break out and of course, a fight is a fight and it’s worth watching whether it’s professionals kicking the shit out of each other or a shithead from the Southside kicking the shit out of another shithead from the Southside. Thing is, it was different than other Southside fights. It was different because it was like a ten year old kicking the shit out of a thirteen year old for calling that redheaded Gallagher a fag. Kev couldn’t believe his eyes when he sat back and watched a ten year old Milkovich, of all fucking people, taking matters into his own hands. A few years later, he wasn’t at all surprised to see the words tattooed on his knuckles. And a few years after that, even though if anyone ever asked him, Mickey wouldn’t have admitted to being a damn queer; Kev wasn’t at all surprised to see him spending an awful lot of time with the redheaded Gallagher.

Kid might be tiny, but he can hand out a beating when he wants to. 

Of course, he’d still never admit to being a queer. That’s probably why he’s been holed up with a stripper from down as Sasha’s Exotics. Hiding it from his very own fag-basher father no doubt. 

That’s beside the point, the point is, the voice filtering through the metal shelves loaded with discount Halloween shit, is pretty adamant about finding out what a ghost says, “what does a ghost say?”

Something keeps responding, but Kev can’t hear it past the shelves and the costumes and all the stupid creepy things that open on their own and startle the piss out of him every single fucking time like he didn’t know it was coming already. A few watts short of a telephone pole.

“It’s Boo, motherfucker,” he responds when the voice asks for like the tenth time.

FUCK appears upside down, with C in the air, over the bags of Reeses. Ooh, Reeses. He grabs a bag and rounds the shelves to see what the fuck mini-Milkovich is up to, “oh fuck,” stopping short, “where’d you steal the kid from?”

“Put one in the empty net dumbass.”

“That’s yours?” his eyes drop to scan the kid, well, sure in the shit, it’s his. All blue-eyed and the hair on the top of her head is black as coal. What she has anyway, she’s got that rubbed off shit on the sides from turning her head back and forth in the car seat and swing and shit, and the stuff in the back is a mullet that would rival Jagr of the ’92-’93 season. Her fingers are wrapped around the first U and she’s chewing on her finger as she appraises him cooly. Well, for a tiny little shit that belongs to a tiny little thug, she’s certainly got a gaze that rivals Clint Eastwood himself. 

“Well, shit,” he doesn’t know what else to say.

“Yah,” brows up, like a silent dare. 

Kev takes a step back like he’s afraid he’ll get punched if he looks at the kid again, “uh how old?”

“Turned one this summer. Her mom wants her to be a ghost for Halloween, but she’s pretty hellbent on Edward Scissorhands.”

Of course she is, he keeps himself from laughing, “what does a ghost say?” he asks the little girl.

And holy shit, the kid’s brows rise like he’s a fucking idiot, “boo, moffer-fckr.”

Oh fuck, Kevin Ball isn’t sure if he’s on back or horse-foot, but he knows this: Kevin Ball is a dead man.

 

**********

 

“This might fit Lucas,” Mickey's thumb runs the length of his lower lip, reaching into the closet and pulling out the costume Nat wore when she was one.

She shrugs, “I can’t believe you let me be Edward Scissorhands when I could barely walk.”

He snickers, “well you refused to tell me what a ghost says, so I let you pick. And it ain’t like I gave you the real blades or nothin’.”

“I don’t think Lauren will let Lucas be Edward Scissorhands.”

“Well, ‘less Lauren wants to make a run to the Halloween Superstore on Halloween at noon,” he can feel his brows up while he scans over his daughter, “then beggars really can’t be choosers, can they?”

Nat grabs the costume from his hand with an eye roll, “what about when I was two? Maybe a too-big pirate or somethin’ would be more to her liking. Besides, a redheaded Scissorhands? I mean, Redbeard is a British nuclear weapon,” she shrugs, “but it could be a cool pirate name.”

“If Lauren ain’t gonna let you put a Scissorhands on her kid, then she sure in the shit ain’t gonna let you draw a beard on him.”

Her eyebrows knit together in thought, “I don’t know why Teddy married her. She is so opposite,” her voice trails off as her eyes land on his and she shrugs, “okay, either way, I’ll get this costume on that kid one way or another because he might be my nephew and I might love him, but I don’t love him enough to go to the Halloween Superstore on Halloween at noon. Fuck, I wish Teddy could have got the whole day off, it would be so much easier to convince him to draw a beard on the little chipmunk.”

“Tree rat,” Mickey snorts. Following behind her on the way downstairs.

“You remember the time that one climbed up Teddy’s leg and sat on his knee staring at him when we were camping? Thought was gonna shit his pants.”

Mickey snickers, clamps her shoulder, “k. Go, force that sack of potatoes into this costume and text me when you’re on your way.”

“Daddy, please, go easy on the poor kid. Beck’s only four, keep that in mind.”

“Sure thing, Kiddo,” tugging her braid gently at the doorway, she might be a grown woman, but she ain't gettin' out of his sight without a braid tug.

She leans in and kisses his cheek, “it’s boo, moffer-fckr.”

“Heard the story before, have ya?”

“Only every fucking Halloween since I was two,” she waves her hand behind her on the way down the front steps.

Mickey leans against the doorway, watching her walk down the sidewalk, out of habit of course. It’s been a long damn time since she was in middle school and wouldn’t let him walk her to the bus stop anymore, but that didn’t stop him from standin' in the doorway on the mornings he was home at school time. 

She waves him off at the corner without turning to look, knowing he’s there. He’ll always be there. Even if she is an officer in the United States Air Force and she flies a fighter jet and all that fancy shit he never expected but always expected from his offspring.

He feels the fucker approaching before he hears him. His chin making contact with Mickey’s shoulder as he watches Nat cross the street at a trot. Turning his head into Mickey’s neck and bitin' him with those stupid, “fucking fangs Gallagher? Really? This shit ain’t old yet?”

“Well, you’re old. Sure. But sucking your blood? Never,” all jumbled and lispy from the damn plastic teeth in his mouth, hands making their way around Mickey’s hips for his belt buckle, “sucking something else? Absolutely never.”

“Fuckever firecrotch,” turning to surrender his lips for the fucker.

“Not much fire left,” remindin' him against his lips, like he'd fuckin' forget.

“No, but you don’t answer to greybush yet.”

His smile against Mickey’s still hasn’t ceased to form goosebumps on his neck as his hands yank Mickey’s ass tight against his pelvis and start grinding, “surrender the booty Blackbeard.”

“Fuck, you’re lame.”

“Mmm hmm.”

—————

Mickey laughs so hard it brings tears to his eyes when the picture that flashes on his phone screen is one of his daughter, looking frustrated to all hell, with the Halloween Superstore sign in the background; at exactly noon, the caption reading, ‘fuck being a cool aunt. Ain’t this the shit grandpas are for?’

—————

“Oh, fuck, ow, you little shit,” dodging hits with the plastic pumpkin bucket as candy is scattering all over the front walk. A chorus of adult laughter, those fuckers, as the Little Red Riding Hood smashes him again and again, “fine, fuck. Uncle,” grabbing her quickly by the armpits, lifting to shrug her onto his hip. Looking into her brown eyes she inherited from her mother, while her little round freckled cheeks lift up with a smile, “she warned you, didn’t she?”

Shaking her head, “no,” a grin calling her bluff.

“So you just knew I’d be hiding in the coffin ready to scare you?”

“Yup. Spidey senses.”

Kissing her forehead quickly, “with great power comes great responsibility,” setting her back on the ground, readjusting her red hood over her orange hair, “alright, let’s get this candy picked up and go dredge up some mischief on the neighborhood.”

Eyes scanning over to his daughter, with a tiny big bad wolf on her hip and a smirk, a smirk that reads loud and clear, ‘yeah, I told her, what are you gonna do about it?’. 

He feels his brows dart up, accepting her challenge while a jolly ginger giant's hand comes down on his shoulder, “okay, I don’t want a live tarantula in my bed again, can we just please call the Halloween pranks a truce?”

“Fuck you greybush. Ain’t about you.”

“If it isn’t about me, then why do I have to deal with the…”

“Friendly fire,” Nat concedes, “you married him,” with a shrug, “alright, ready to show your grandkids how it’s done in the Southside?”

—————

“Halloween accomplished,” Mickey sighs, pulling the door open after a couple hours of severed hands and spiders on springs, smoke bombs on front porches, the extension hand to knock on doors. Tossin’ all the tools of the trade towards the couch and sauntering over for a beer, yanking the fridge open, “your preserved head ain’t got shit on me kid,” when his eyes land on the jar with a photo of Ian’s face in it, filled with greenish water.

“Nothin’ at all?” she wonders, but her acting ain't even a little believable, this is just the warm up. She’s got somethin’ better than this up her sleeve.

“Nope. Want a beer?”

“A bear shit in the woods?”

Handing one over, leanin' his butt back against the counter and watching his daughter, “three more days?”

“Yeah, stop with all the sorrowful bullshit, feelin’ all bad for yourself ‘cause I’m being deployed again. Ain’t my first rodeo.”

“I know, but I’m allowed to worry about my daughter. Got it?”

“Worry is a rocking chair,” she smirks with one brow up.

“When is it ‘ppropriate to flip my own daughter the bird?”

“Pretty sure you’ve been doin’ it since I was born.”

“Fuckever kid, just let me have my parental rights.”

“Okay Daddy,” she takes the steps to his side, leaning against the counter, “at least we had the holidays last year,” head dropping to his shoulder. 

He bites back the stinging of tears, turnin’ quickly to kiss her temple, “I’m proud of you.”

“I know.”

He’ll never get tired of sayin' it, but before this can turn into a pity party for being the one left behind while she’s savin’ the world, “the fuck’s Ian anyway?”

She snickers, letting up on the affection, knowing Halloween is not a night for tears, “beats me. You guys are getting pretty fuckin’ old though, he’s probably in bed already,” her blue eyes drop to look at her wrist watch, “yeah, it’s way past your bedtime,” shooting him an elbow.

He snorts at her, but she’s not entirely wrong. 

—————

“Cockroach in the lampshade?” hollering down the hall when he flips the switch and sees the shadowed outline, “that ain’t gonna work either!”

“Not even a little?” comes from her bedroom and echoes down the hall, lined with amusement. 

“No,” he’s waiting for the scream. He knows he’s got her this year. She won’t be expectin' it at all. But he knows she ain’t done either. There’s somethin' else, he just has to find it.

The scream doesn’t disappoint. It’s one of those screams of disgust, irrational fear, and, “I hate you! You know I hate crickets!”

Smirking to himself, knowing she’ll be findin' them all night long, even in her dreams. Wearing his smug victory on his face he makes his way over to the closet, unbuttoning his shirt along the way. S’pose one good thing about livin’ with Ian all these years, he’s made him a tidier person just ‘cause he’s sick and fuckin’ tired of hearin’ him bitchin’ about unfolded shirts gettin’ wrinkly and shit. So, fuck, fine, hang the fuckin’ shirts that need to be hung. Don’t mean he’s gonna wash ‘em when it’s appropriate to wash ‘em. One arm out, one arm in, yanking open the closet door and immediately stumbling backwards when his eyes catch sight of the scene laid out in front of him, hand on his heart to keep it in check and a silent holler that’s stuck in his throat at the image of a destroyed baby doll, hanging by a noose in his closet. One of those real old creepy things, probably belonged to Svet at some point. Little shit smeared it with fake blood, stuck a pair of scissors in her head, and it's lookin' at him. Fuckin' thing is lookin' right at him. 

Fuck. He takes a step back and something latches onto his ankles.

“Fuck!” a tug on his ankle as he tries to get his footing back and take off as fast as he fuckin’ can out the window or fuckever the closest exit is, “fuck,” throwing him off-balance when the grip tightens. And it ain’t like he don’t recognize the grip, oh, he recognizes it alright and that ginger fucker’s gonna have some explainin’ to do later, but this time when he yanks, Mickey hits the floor, “you fucker,” the panic of being caught completely off guard is starting to recede already, probably ‘cause he recognized the hands at his ankles immediately, but fucker, “you fuckin’ prick,” kicking lamely to dislodge the jerk who is laughing his ass off, “you’re not off the hook either you little shit!” he hollers towards the closed bedroom door, knowing she’s snickering down the hall over her assumed victory.

Ian’s dumb dopey grin is becoming visible under the edge of the bed, he’s slithering out on his belly, hands making their crawling way up Mickey’s legs, looping into his jean’s pockets and pulling his entire body over Mickey’s with a smug fuckin’ look on his face, “got you.”

“Fucker. Thought you weren’t in on the prank war.”

“Wasn’t. Until last year’s tarantula in the bed, my hand was forced.”

“That was Nat put the damn spider in the bed!”

“Yep. But you’re the one who raised her, so…” sliding his hand through Mickey’s hair, leaning over him.

“You’re gonna pay for that Gallagher," feeling his brows raise, "we. We raised her,” reminding him firmly. His hand is slipping up his husband’s back and his body is unconsciously making the accommodations for the fucker to rest between his legs, ‘cause they both know he belongs there and that ain’t gonna change even if he helped put a fucked-up doll in the closet and then yanked him off his damn feet when he was tryin’ to flee the scene.

“Gotta admit, that was a good one.”

Fuckin' dopey ass smile, "fuckever tough guy," tapping on his cheek, wondering, "hear from Teddy yet?"

"Damn it Mick," his sigh traveling across Mickey's jaw when he reaches to check his phone, "thought we agreed he'd be out of the pranks while the kids were little."

"Yah, well, ain't gonna effect the kids at all when he puts his slipper on and there's a tree-rat in the left one."

"A chipmunk? You put a chipmunk in his slipper?"

"Well it ain't a live one, fuck you think I am?"

"Jesus," his disapproving glare lands on Mickey's face when he looks at his phone, turning the screen to show him the picture of Ted with the stuffed tree-rat in his hand and the mirrored disapproving glare. The desired effect don't happen, only makes him laugh, "you're a dick."

"Sure in the fuck am. Wait 'til morning when your alarm clock is the scream of our daughter from the kitchen when she pours her coffee only to find a rat fetus in the carafe."

"You are a fucked-up human being Milkovich."

"I ain't the one disfigured and hung a baby doll in the closet."

He shrugs, sliding his phone back into his pocket, settling over Mickey's body with a snort, "takes fucked-up to beat fucked-up."

—————

Yeah, so maybe he didn’t think that one through so well. Turns out, being an officer in the US Air Force means she wakes up pretty damn early in the mornin’. And turns out, growing up Milkovich Southside piece of trash with a mad Russian mother and an Army veteran dad makes her someone who don’t give a shit about a plastic rat fetus floatin’ around in her coffee at five in the fuckin’ mornin’. 

But it does turn out, she wakes up that early and don't give a shit about that shit, only takes it as a damn challenge to startle him out of bed with the damn rat fetus landing on his face and a very unimpressed, “boo motherfucker,” echoing behind her as she takes off out the bedroom doorway and down the hall to escape being the victim of his early morning angry brows. Don’t help that old greybush is laughin’ his ginger ass off either. 

“I’ll get you both next year, you moffer-fckrs,” he promises, knowing his brows are up to his hairline while he tries to get his damn heart to stay in his chest. Those fuckers. Dopey damn dipshit leanin' across the bed to kiss his forehead with a smug damn smile before he gets out of bed. Fuck Halloween.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I highly doubt I'm the first person to switch that line from moo to boo, but I laughed... so I hope I wasn't the only one. First time I've ever written anything from Kev's perspective, it was pretty fun :)
> 
> Told you I'd break some of the heaviness with something light. Happy Halloween everyone!
> 
> I'll come back and do the holidays with this family and probably fill in some Teddy/Lauren relationship stuff and their kids. Also we'll do something for a flight with Nat at some point. 
> 
> Thanks friends!


	16. Someday Sounds Okay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flashback to the first Thanksgiving together.

Someday Sounds Okay

 

“If April showers bring May flowers, what do Mayflowers bring?” his little round face aimed up at Ian on the walk up to the Milkovich house.

He reaches out, tousles his hair, damp with half frozen drizzle, “what?”

“Pilgrims!”

“That’s a good one buddy,” hand landing on his shoulder, steering him towards the door. First Thanksgiving without Becky. Fuck, and the images of Monica bleeding all over the kitchen are finding their way to the surface. It was only Becky’s love of the holiday that made Monica fall to background noise in recent years. 

“Daddy?” he’s halted at the base of the steps, his brows knit in concern.

“Hmm?” rebalancing the pies from the diner in his free hand.

“Are you sad ‘cause you miss Mommy?”

His breath exits in a frosted, shaky puff, “yeah.”

“I miss her too.”

Pulling him closer to his side, taking the steps slowly, “this will be good though.”

“Mr Milkovich is a good cook,” he agrees, very practically, “plus, I think Mommy would have liked him.”

“Think so?”

“Yeah, she wouldn’t like how much he swears, but she would have liked his jokes. And his cooking.”

Kid must be hungry, “I think you’re right.”

His hand rises off Teddy’s shoulder to knock on the door, Teddy wonders, “why are you knocking?”

At the same time a voice crashes through the closed door loud and clear, “you don’t gotta knock Gallagher, just fuckin’ open it and walk in.”

Shrugging at his son, a little gap-toothed smile aims his way with a, “told you so.”

“Technically you asked, he told,” stepping in behind him to the warmth and chatter of the house, “Happy Thanksgiving,” announcing to the entire room.

“Fuckever firecrotch, take off your boots, line ‘em up all nice and fuckin’ neat on the mat and put your pies on the counter,” his hands are busy at work in Nat’s hair. Giving it a tug when she tries to turn her head, “hold still Pocahontas, we’re almost done.”

Ian can’t stifle the smile that’s rising as he watches those FUCK U-UP hands delicately braiding strands of black hair into some kind of intricate pattern on her head that he’s never seen before. Usually it’s two braids, but this is taking way more patience than that, not that Ian’s ever braided but it looks like it has to. 

His head turns, those eyes landing on Ian’s and stealing his breath when he busts him staring, his face a clear ‘the fuck you lookin’ at?’ without voicing a word. Hot flush climbing it’s way up Ian’s neck as Mickey shouts over his shoulder, “you better not be lifting that bird all by yourself Ms B,” towards the little old lady shuffling around the kitchen.

“Turkey is only twenty pounds Mikhailo. I remember when you were twenty pounds, you were so much sweeter before you could talk.”

“Still full of shit though,” Mandy’s voice sounds from where she’s just walked in the backdoor of the house.

His middle finger takes a break from braiding to flip her off. 

—————

The place certainly filled up fast. Ian doesn’t mind the crowd, or the noise, but when the kids want to go play outside, he’s glad for the fresh air. Standing on the porch, leaning against the support column and listening to their laughter dancing around on the cool Autumn breeze. He takes a deep breath through his nose and lets himself remember for just a moment the woman that gave him the son he adores. Remembering what Mickey said, about never forgetting her, if he never forgets her then Teddy won’t either. And Teddy was right, with all his childhood wisdom, Becky would have liked Mickey. 

Fuck, it’s impossible not to like Mickey. 

And it’s like his mind just sent out silent signals to him, the door squeaking just a little, the porch boards moving under his steps and his heavy sigh when he stops beside Ian. Lighting a smoke and nudging him with his elbow. A silent go-ahead to talk about whatever is sitting heavy on his chest. But he doesn’t want to, not right now. This right here, this feels like Thanksgiving. Ian’s hand falling to find Mickey’s lower back, the sound of their children playing together echoing around them. He turns his head to lock onto Mickey’s eyes as a cloud of smoke rolls slowly out of his perfect lips, “thanks,” he hears himself whisper.

Brows dip, “for what?”

“Inviting us over.”

“Why the fuck wouldn’t I?”

“You know, it’s called Thanksgiving, so, you know, people give thanks.”

“Yeah, well, you can give me your thanks after the kids are sleepin’.”

“I just get invited to a sleepover?”

FUCK brings the cig up to his lips, eyes flitting back and forth between Ian’s. Sure, they’ve slept at Ian’s house a handful of times, but Mickey’s still resisting fully giving in to certain domesticity. Ian can’t really blame him, it’s still pretty early on in the relationship, he’s got a daughter to watch out for, and any time he lets Ian further into his life then he’s letting Ian further into Nat’s life as well. Changing the dynamics by adding another child since Ian and Teddy are a package deal. Changing the dynamics with Svet by bringing another parent into the mix. 

Fuck, he wants him to say yes. But he won’t force it. Instead, he feels himself smile, his hand sliding across Mickey’s lower back to bend fingers over his hip, pull him close to his side. Like being against his body heat will make his point without having to say a damn word. 

“No,” asshole. A sly smile rises, eyes locking onto Ian’s, “you got invited to a fuckover, sleeping’s optional.”

Goddamn that smile. 

There are moments, plenty of them when he’s looking at Mickey’s face, and kicking himself so fucking hard for having run off for a damn decade, for having missed a decade of those smiles and that voice and that scent and that everything, fuck, everything. He watches his hand rise, sliding across his cheek, thumb passing over his pursed lips. Mickey’s head instinctively tilts back for the incoming kiss. The incoming kiss that is inevitably interrupted by, “eww!” in hysterical giggles. 

And he remembers, if he hadn’t taken off back then, if he hadn’t been in the Army he’d have never had Teddy in his life. And if they’d been together, then Mickey never would have hooked up with Svet and they wouldn’t have Nat. Maybe in life some of the worst decisions can end up with the best fucking outcome possible.

The ‘eww’, only stops Mickey for long enough to lean out, glare at the kids and growl, “mind your business demon spawn,” before turning to dart back into Ian’s lips. And that, that is certainly worth giving thanks for. 

————

When he sits back with an empty plate and full belly, his hand falls to the back of Teddy’s neck. He’s met with that gap-toothed grin and he’s so glad he has his mother’s smile. 

He lingers there. Just listening to the voices, the laughter, the stories. Watching his son’s face as it reflects the mood of the room and the holiday. The closeness and warmth of a family. As ragtag a bunch it is, it’s a family and Ian is so fucking lucky to be a part of it. 

————

It’s late as hell by the time the kids settle down for the night and Ian settles down in Mickey’s bed. Mickey’s bed, but he can’t help thinking it’ll be their bed soon. Fuck, he’s thinking about dropping to one knee tonight and begging, knowing he doesn’t want to spend a moment on this Earth without this man by his side. But it’s too soon. 

He’s smiling that private smile that he only wears in these quiet moments, when he walks in the door, pushing it slowly closed behind him. He lingers there for a moment, scanning over Ian with those soulful eyes. The gears aren’t turning fast and burning away in his head, he’s got a wistful expression on his face and Ian can’t help but wonder if he’s thinking the same things. 

“Hey,” he finally breaks the ice with. It’s quiet, calm, easy. 

“Hey,” responding like it’s the only thing he’s wanted to say to him all day, laying his hand flat on the bed beside him, rubbing gently along the top quilt. Sure, Mickey said it’d be a fuckover, but Ian’s here for the other stuff. For the kissing and touching, holding. For falling asleep together and waking up together. For spending tomorrow together, just the four of them. He’s here for the smiles, the laughs, and even the damn tears. He’s here for all of it. 

The smile that’s rising on his face must be conveying just the right message to that gorgeous stocky piece of Southside trash because he’s started taking the steps over. Nonchalant, easy gait. No rush, no insecurity. A warm dancing flame starting to light in Ian’s chest, his fingertips reaching out, grasping for Mickey’s hand when he’s beside the bed. Lifting it to his lips and keeping it there, “I want you to know,” not really intending on speaking any of these thoughts just yet, but apparently Mickey’s presence still does the unexpected to Ian, “no rush, no pushing, no pressure. I just want you to know that I want to ask you to marry me someday.”

“Someday huh?” he doesn’t skip a beat. Nothing about him gets tense or surprised. Like he heard it all inside Ian’s head already anyway.

“Yeah,” his eyes meet those gorgeous blue orbs and he wouldn’t be able to peel his gaze off for anything at this point, “I love you, and someday, I want to make it official.”

U-UP squeezes Ian’s fingers tight, and he nods, “someday sounds okay to me Army.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short and sweet :) Thanks friends and Happy Thanksgiving to those who celebrate it!


	17. The Magic Of The Holiday Season, Or Some Shit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nat's going to take us through a few Christmas memories :)

The Magic Of The Holiday Season, Or Some Shit

 

******** Six Years Old ********

Daddy’s hand is slippery. Like slippery, slippery. Like the kind of slippery it gets when Mommy says he’s nervous, the kind of nervous Nat gets when she has to go to school in the morning on music class days. Because music class sucks and Lexie Gunther told her that she should sing with her mouth shut because her voice sounds like a dying cat. So Nat stomped on her foot and guess who ended up at the Principal’s office? Well, it wasn’t Lexie. Mommy said not to stomp on people’s feet, but it was just for show in front of the Principal because after they left she patted her head in that way she does that tells Nat without words that she’s proud of her for standing up for herself even if other people’s opinions aren’t supposed to bother her. And all the freedom to be me stuff that she’s always talking about. 

So Daddy’s hand is slippery like that, but they’re just standing in line waiting to see Santa. His fingers keep tightening around hers and then letting go like he’s going to pry her fingers off his, and then tightening again. Nat wonders if that’s how it would feel to hold a baby bird with a broken wing. Daddy’s hand wants to fly away but it can’t.

“It’s just Santa,” she reminds him when she tilts her head up to look at him, taking a sip of her blue raspberry slushy while she waits for him to respond.

His eyebrows are medium height, where he either didn’t hear her or like Mommy says, he’s processing. She opens her mouth to repeat, but he’s processing and he processes, “gimme your slushy cup.”

“You want a sip?”

“No. I gotta piss.”

Shrugging, pointing to the bathroom across the mall’s food court.

“I can’t leave you standing here alone. And if we get outta line, we’ll have to get back in the end, and we’ll be here for another fuckin’ two hours waiting for Santa.”

“It hasn’t been two hours. I would know.”

“Oh yeah? How would you know?”

She tilts her head towards the clock on the wall that she’s been watching since they got in line, “twenty minutes,” ago. 

“Oh okay, little miss I-can-tell-time-now. Gimme your cup.”

“Are you going to drink it?”

“No. I’m going to piss in it, so we don’t gotta lose our spot in line.”

“But then I can’t drink it.”

“Well technically you could. As much fuckin’ sugar as they put on those things you probably wouldn’t even taste the piss. Fuck,” his hand wants to fly away again, instead his other one rises, his thumb traces his lip. Nat isn’t sure why he does that, maybe he thinks his lips have changed since the last time he touched them. But Mommy always give Nat the don’t-do-that eye and swats her hand away from her face whenever she touches her face. Why does she let Daddy do it then? She says it’s ‘cause you can’t teach an old dog new tricks. But she must mean an old dad. Daddy’s not really old though. His hair is black. Not grey like Simon Miller’s dad, “you just can’t drink it twice in a row.”

“A slushy?”

“Piss.”

“Oh. Why?”

“‘Cause it’s like the level of the toxins in it or something. Piss is just body waste.”

“So is poop.”

“So is poop. Now gimme your cup.”

“No. If you pee in it then you’ll get an incandescent disposure.”

“A what?”

“That’s what Mommy said Uncle Iggy was in jail for last time. Because he got his skin stick out to pee in public and got an incandescent disposure but it would have been worse if it was to let sticky volcano spew out.”

“Oh. That. Where the fuck is she anyway? We only gotta do this hoity toity bullshit ‘cause of her, you and me could’ve gone to the Alibi to see Southside Santa, been there, drank a beer, and been back home by now. But no, Mommy wants the fancy chair and the fancy decorations and the…”

“There are two Santas?!!!”

“Uh, no. You know this ain’t the real Santa, right?”

The slushy hits the tiles and Nat can feel her mouth wide open to catch flies but Mommy ain’t around to tell her to shut it, “what?!”

“Uh,” that bird is ready to fly away real fast but her fingers clamp down tight on it, “I mean, Santa’s busy at the North Pole getting all the toys and shit ready. He ain’t got time for this shit. These are just, uh, they’re just impersonators that take the messages to the real Santa.”

“Imposters!”

“Exactly.”

“Then fuck this shit. I’m findin’ a reindeer and heading North. You comin’?”

—————

Mommy doesn’t look very happy when she comes in the Alibi to see Kev in a red suit but no beard, he’s not a good imposter, but he has a comfortable lap and he and Daddy are deep in conversation on how to steal a reindeer. 

 

******** Eight Years Old ********

“Why are you so fancy?” demanding when Daddy comes out of his bedroom with date clothes on. But they’re only going to see Southside Santa.

“‘Cause we’re meetin’ Ian and Teddy.”

“Oh.”

“And Teddy still believes that this Santa is the real Santa, so how ‘bout we keep a lid on callin’ him Kev this year?”

“But he is Kev.”

“I know. But Teddy doesn’t, so…”

“So what? He’s gotta grow up some day.”

Daddy steals her nose, smiling at her, that big old Daddy smile that he smiles whenever she gets ‘Southside attitude’, “okay, but let’s let him grow up on his own terms.”

“Fine.”

—————

How can one kid be so dumb? It’s so clearly Kev under that beard but Teddy honestly thinks it’s Santa. Moron. 

When she turns to find Daddy, he’s at the bar with Mr Gallagher and he’s sayin’ something about, “when Santa comes up my chimney…”

“Santa goes down the chimney Daddy, not up.”

Now he’s got that look that he wears when he says something he shouldn’t say in front of a kid, which is pretty much everything he says, but he only admits it sometimes. Reaching out to flip her braids, “that’s what I meant.”

“And we don’t have a chimney. He just has to use the back door.”

“You’re right,” he’s smiling again, this time it’s not one for Nat, it’s one for Mr Gallagher. Nat’s not sure how she feels about the smiles that are only for him. Feeling her eyes roll, now she’s gonna have to hang out with Teddy unless she can find Aunt Mandy. 

—————

“Why?”

“Why what?” she found her out back by the dumpsters smoking a cigarette. She looked kind of faraway like she does sometimes but she smiled when Nat poked her side.

“Why do people play into this crap about Santa and reindeer and it’s all just consumerism anyway.”

“Consumerism, huh?”

“Yeah, well, I don’t think the wisemen had any idea this was how it would all turn out.”

Aunt Mandy smirks, “if they were the three wisewomen, then Christmas would be totally different.”

“Why?”

“Well, three wisewomen would have brought useful things like diapering cloth, a cradle, and a milk maid. And they would have known Mary was no virgin, I mean, who is she kidding?”

“Huh?”

She reaches out with her free hand, flicks Nat’s braid back, raises the cigarette to her lips and shrugs, telling her with smoke filled air, “nothin’. You a mini Grinch?”

“No,” she plops down on the back step of the bar, chin resting on her fists, watching Aunt Mandy’s feet.

She’s silent for a long time, but Nat can feel her watching, “it’s hard to share your dad, isn’t it?”

“No,” it probably comes out too fast to be believable since Aunt Mandy snickers before she sits down next to her, squeezing in tight, wrapping her arm around Nat’s shoulders, “yes.”

“I know,” rubbing her hand up and down on Nat’s arm, maybe she should have a jacket on, “I had to share him the first time he dated Ian. It was a nightmare. At first, but then I got used to having Ian around and I realized how happy your daddy was when he was around. And you know what?”

“What?” she grumbles into her clasped hands.

“It might feel like he’s replacing you, but he’s not. Your daddy will never put anyone ahead of you. Ever.”

When the door screeches open, neither on of them bother moving, it’s probably just Kev Claus sneaking away from Teddy’s neediness. But the hands sliding under Nat’s armpits tell otherwise. Daddy’s warm, that’s why she doesn’t ever remember her jacket, ‘cause she has a Daddy furnace. He lifts her just enough to sit under her, then he lets her back down again, kisses the top of her head and wonders, “you out here contemplating how to highjack a plane and head north?”

 

********** Age 16 **********

“Just wonder,” Teddy shrugs, exhaling the herb-infused breath into the cold night’s air above them on the roof. Nat watches it swirl around them, blot out the smog and smudges of clouds between them and the stars, “sometimes, what’d it’d be like if my mom was still alive. Or if Dad hadn’t, um, claimed me as his, I guess.”

“Well,” she turns to lean up on her elbow so she can see his face, “you wouldn’t be laying on the roof smoking weed with me right now watching Mrs Booth making reindeer tracks on her roof.”

“Fuck, her kids are like ten years old, I can’t believe they buy into that shit.”

“Says the kid who believed Kev was Santa until he was twelve,” rolling her eyes, falling back to flat on the roof.

“I was like, eleven.”

“Either way, you were way too old,” the sound of the window squeaking open makes her spine straighten and hopefully Teddy has the brains to hide the joint.

“You ain’t that smooth kid, hand it over,” Daddy sighs, plops down next to Nat and takes the joint, “lighter too.”

And then the asshole smokes it! The whole thing!

“That was my Christmas present to myself,” she mumbles towards the foggy air above her as snowflakes start to twist and twirl their way down.

“Guess you’ll make better decisions on how you spend your Christmas money from Aunt Mandy next year. Hope you got more than this, otherwise you spent way too fuckin’ much. Surprised you shits ain’t growin’ your own yet anyway.”

“You won’t share your bounty.”

“Get creative,” he nudges her elbow when he lays back next to her, “I’m your dad, not your dealer.”

“Yeah, well, if you did share yours, then you wouldn’t have to worry about who my dealer is, would you?”

“No, but DCFS comes knockin’ when they find the shit in your locker or some shit and then you’ll be watchin’ me gettin’ taken away in cuffs.”

“I’m not dumb enough to keep weed in my locker. It’s fucking stupid that I gotta wait ’til I’m twenty-one to buy weed legally, but I can sign my life away to the military when I’m eighteen. Can die for my country, but I can’t drink a beer before I deploy.”

“You’re goin’ to the academy shithead, not enlistin’.”

“Says who?”

“Uh, says me. And your mom. And your mom got a hammer for when she says it. Besides, weed slows you down, you don’t need to slow down.”

“It’s a de-stresser Daddy. It’s not like I’m shooting heroin or somethin’.”

“Hey, I didn’t say it was unhealthy, I just said it slows you down. And it’s illegal for you to possess it, so I’m keepin’ you out of trouble by smokin’ your stash. You might as well just thank me. Pretty sure if you got caught with it, you could kiss the USAFA goodbye and it ain’t like you can smoke it once you get accepted or for the next however many years of your commitment, so don’t get reliant on it now.”

“Pot’s not addictive.”

“I know, but that don’t mean you can’t get reliant on it. Figure out a different way to relax if that’s what you’re doin’.”

“Like what?”

“Fuckin’ do yoga. Sing Taylor Swift. I don’t care, just don’t do drugs or herbs or booze. Shit’s okay from time to time, just sayin’, you assholes are sixteen, no sense in startin’ a life of substances young. K?”

“Taylor Swift is like so ten years ago.”

“Fuckever. Go to bed before Santa comes and you find out he ain’t real.”

 

********** 25 Years Old **********

Her hands are shaking when she picks up the phone. They were steady on mission and she supposes that’s all that matters. He picks up on the second ring even though it’s three in the morning there, “Nat?”

“Hi Daddy,” her voice shakes and she tries to bite it back, but tears spill over anyway, “I’m so glad to hear your voice.”

“Yah, well, me too Button Nose.”

And he knows better than to ask, so he talks. He talks about Southside Santa, and how this year one of the kids peed on his lap. He talks about the snow storm they got that actually dumped snow in their yards. Enough to shut the city down for a day. He talks about Mom and Dad. He catches her up on Teddy. And when her time is up, she whispers, “thank you Daddy. Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas. I love you.”

“I love you too.”

And they know better than to say goodbye.

 

******** 28 Years Old **********

She waits outside until she sees the bedroom lights start turning on in the upstairs of Teddy and Lauren’s house. Then she picks the lock, lets herself in, plugs in the lights for the Christmas tree, and waits. 

Letting the smell of blue spruce mingle in her nostrils with the scent of coffee perking in the kitchen. Letting the sounds of a three year old thumping around, yelling excitedly, echo down the stairs and into her ears. A smile is rising and the body aches, the overtired, and emotionally drained feelings immediately disappear at the sound of her brother’s voice, reminding his daughter, “don’t wake your brother just yet. Wait for Mommy…”

But she’s not waiting. Her little curly orange head bobbing on her hopping way down the stairs, she pauses on the landing, both hands rising to cover her face as soon as her eyes land on Nat. And she starts sobbing. Shit, well, this wasn’t what she wanted. 

“Oh Beck, come here,” kneeling on the floor between her and the fully lighted and decorated Christmas tree.

“No!”

“Please?” she catches Teddy’s eye when he appears behind his daughter. His brows are furled at her response to seeing Nat, but then the fucker does the same fucking thing. Fucker. Covers his face and starts sobbing like a little bitch, “Jesus fucking Christ,” Nat mumbles, taking the steps over, “see if I ever surprise you two for the holidays again,” two steps up to the landing and her arms are around her brother, her niece is crushed between their bodies and fuck, tears are starting to roll down her cheeks too. 

“I’m such a piece of shit,” Teddy mumbles, his hands wiping off his cheeks and landing on her back, “you, of all damn people, doing something meaningful at Christmas? And I’m,” his shoulders shake a little, burrowing his face into her shoulder like he did that time his foot got caught in the fence when he was tryin’ to be all badass scaling it, but he ate pavement instead. They were probably ten. Or that time he broke his arm when they were eleven, crashed off his skateboard. Idiot, never has had much coordination. 

“Sort of a piece of shit. But you’re overtired and stressed out, so,” she shrugs. A three year old, an infant, and a medical career, of course he’s overwhelmed by this. Fuck, she probably should have called him yesterday instead of surprising him.

He snorts up some snot and the sound of Lauren’s camera clicking from the top of the stairs forces him to jolt out of the embrace, wiping at his face. He’s grinning when he looks up the stairs at her, “Nat’s home.”

“I see that,” her smile is warm, welcoming. Something she usually doesn’t show Nat, but maybe being a mom has dislodged the stick from her ass, “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas,” finally prying Beck’s hands from her face and lifting her to her hip, leaning into the top of her head, “sorry Peanut, didn’t mean to catch you off guard.”

“I missed you,” her face tilts up with a glossy smile, “did Santa bring you? Did you get to ride in the sleigh? You’re what I asked him for, but Daddy said sometimes even when you’re really good all year, that sometimes the things you ask Santa for just don’t work out. But it did! It worked out! It did!”

Nat isn’t sure which part of that she should respond to, even if the ball of emotions in her throat dislodged and allowed her to respond, so she doesn’t. She just holds her niece tighter, watches her brother’s eyes water, and shit, well, “guess good old Santa Claus got it right this year, huh?”

“He sure did,” Teddy’s smile is annoyingly bright and Nat can’t help but smile back. Thinking maybe all this time the idiot was right to believe in the magic of holiday season or some shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well... Merry Christmas to all of you who celebrate it :) If you don't celebrate Christmas, then Happy Holidays or Happy Friday, or whatever you care to be celebratory about!

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos, comments appreciated :)


End file.
